KILLY 


315E 


MR.  BILLY  BUTTONS 


A  NOVEL 


WALTER  LECKY.  s^ 


s 


NEW  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO: 

BENZIGER    BROTHERS, 


nitmxt  TO  m»      I         rt-BLisMEns  o» 

•OLV  ATOSTOLIC  SBB     |     »ENZIGE»'s  MAGAZINE 


Copyright.  1896,  by  BENZIGKR  BROTHERS. 


Dedication. 

THIS   STORY  OF  MR.    BILLY   BUTTONS    IS   DEDICATED  TO 

THE  ONE  WHO   FIRST   VIEWED  IT  WITH   FAVOR — 

TO  MY   FRIEND 

RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON, 

AUTHOR   OF 

THE  "  DUKESBOROUGH  TALES," 

p 

ETC. 


2136940 


CONTENTS. 


CMArrn  rxci 

I.  SKINNY  BBNOIT .  i 

II.  BILLY  BUTTONS  RELATES, 34 

III.  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE, 54 

IV.  THE  COMING  OF  SLITHERS, 74 

V.  THE  WOOING  OF  MILLY,          •        .        •        •        .  90 

VI.  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON,     .       .        .        .        .        .  lai 

VII.  THE  RETURN  OF  COR  KEY  SLITHERS,        ,        .        .  139 

VIII.  AN  OLD  MUSICIAN, 157 

IX.  PERB  MONNIER,         .......  184 

X.  HOME  AT  LAST,         .......  208 

XI.  THE  PASSING  OF  BILLY  BUTTONS,  ....  140 


MR.  BILLY  BUTTONS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

SKINNY    BENOIT. 

"A  COUNTRY  doctor  leads  a  strange  life;  that 
is  a  saying  of  one  of  them.  His  life  is  one 
of  sacrifice."  Those  words  I  wrote  in  my  diary 
long  ago,  before  these  wild  hills  became  my 
friends.  It  is  an  opinion  of  mine  that  to  enjoy 
Nature  you  must  be  on  speaking  terms  with 
her.  Toby,  my  good  gray  nag,  seems  to  know 
this.  No  sooner  does  he  come  to  a  lovely 
snatch  of  scenery  than  his  usual  quick  jog  be- 
comes a  sedate  walk.  A  friend  of  mine  called 
Toby  a  brute;  it  was  strange  on  my  part  to 
resent  it — why  I  could  not  explain.  Perhaps  I 
was  thinking  of  Toby  being  able  to  feast  his 
eyes  on  nature,  while  so  many  men,  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  brute, — I  follow  the  moralists, — 
would  find  in  these  same  scenes  nothing  to  give 

9 


I0  SKINNY   BENOIT. 

delight.  When  I  was  a  younger  man  I  had 
written,  as  I  have  said,  that  a  doctor's  life  was 
one  of  sacrifice;  now  that  I  have  passed  the 
fifties  I  see  no  reason  to  change  that  entry  in 
my  diary.  My  fife  has  been  a  hard  one,  full 
of  peril.  Our  little  village  lies  in  these  moun- 
tains isolated  from  railways — "  which  means," 
said  a  New-Yorker,  Dr.  Jenks,  "  from  civiliza- 
tion." The  nearest  town  lies  twenty  miles  to  the 
south,  and  that  by  a  narrow  mountain  road.  In 
winter  this  road  is  snow-bound,  and  Snipeville — 
for  that  is  the  name  of  our  village — settles  down 
to  cut  logs:  some  logs,  such  as  spruce  and  balsam, 
for  Dixon's  pulp-mill;  others  for  Parker's  saw- 
mill. The  village  store  has  been  well  supplied  in 
the  autumn  with  teas,  sugars,  coffees,  and  canned 
fruits,  so  there  is  no  want  of  what  we  call  here 
the  luxuries  of  life.  Every  family  has  killed 
its  fat  hog  and  salted  him,  filled  the  cellar  with 
potatoes,  cabbages,  turnips,  carrots,  a  few  beets, 
and  stacked  the  yard  with  piles  of  fuel.  We 
are  poor,  it  is  true,  but  our  poverty  is  of  a 
different  sort  from  that  felt  by  the  toilers  in  the 
city.  Jamsey  Duquette  sold  his  farm  three  years 
ago  and  went  East.  He  was  glad  to  come 
back  to  the  mountains.  "  Doctor,"  says  he, 
"  when  you  have  to  buy  everything,  even  the 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  II 

water,  and  live  in  three  rooms  not  as  big  as  a 
hencoop,  and  never  see  a  hill,  or  bit  of  grass, 
or  anything  that  you  were  brought  up  to,  you 
get  your  senses  back  and  long  to  see  Snipe- 
ville."  I  had  this  thought  of  Jamsey's  in  my 
mind  when  Toby  passed  Slippery  Creek,  as  he 
rounded  Owl's  Head.  As  was  his  wont,  he 
became  sedate.  I  lay  back  in  my  sleigh,  cosey 
in  my  furs,  chatting  with  the  snow-crowned  hills 
and  the  frozen  Salmon  River.  Now  and  then 
that  inner  Me,  one  of  the  most  loving  of  com- 
panions, suggested  that  if  my  life  was  hard  the 
pleasure  of  such  scenes  as  lay  before  me,  and 
the  robust  health  to  enjoy  them,  more  than 
repaid  the  sacrifice. 

From  behind  a  few  straggling  choke-cherry 
bushes  came  a  wild,  plaintive  laugh.  Toby 
stopped.  William  Buttons,  of  Squidville,  avows 
that  my  horse  knows  when  some  one  needs  my 
service.  It  is  the  old  story:  if  a  man  or  brute 
shows  some  signs  of  intelligence  more  than  the 
ordinary  our  imagination  supplies  the  super- 
natural. 

"Who's  there?"  and  I  peered  into  the 
cherries.  "  It's  me,  doctor,"  she  answered;  and 
crazed  Jenny  Sauve"  jumped  from  her  hiding- 
place,  patted  Toby's  head,  gave  him  a  few 


12  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

dried  brown    leaves  to    eat,  and  then  seated  her- 
self  beside    me. 

"  Jenny's  a  good  girl  to-day  ?"  Jenny  shook 
her  head. 

"Where   was   Jenny   going?" 

Another  wild,  plaintive  laugh.  "  Jenny  was 
a  pretty  girl."  The  handsome  face,  with  the 
strange,  fiery,  wandering  blue  eyes,  curved  in 
suppressed  laughter.  It  has  always  been  a 
strange  thing  to  me  the  pleasure  that  idiots 
take  in  being  praised.  This  reminds  me  that 
more  than  twenty  years  ago  I  prepared  a  paper 
on  the  "  Sensibility  of  Idiots  to  Flattery."  I 
read  it  to  Jenks;  he  laughed  at  it,  called  it 
unscientific.  Jenks  is  a  New  York  specialist, 
which  means  unbounded  egotism,  linked  with 
scepticism  of  other  men's  works. 

"Will    I    drive   Jenny  to   the   store?" 

"  No,  no,  doctor;  go  to  Skinny  Benoit's. 
Skinny  is  sick." 

"Very   bad,    Jenny?" 

"  She  cry  much;  one  tooth,"  and,  laughing 
Jenny,  opening  her  mouth,  beat  time  on  her 
pearly  teeth  with  the  long  nail  of  her  index 
finger.  Here  I  admit  that  I  am  no  specialist, 
to  use  a  phrase  of  Blind  Cagy's.  I  am  an 
all-round  man.  Tooth-pulling  is  one  of  my 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  IJ 

arts,  and  it  was  easy  to  see,  by  Jenny,  that 
my  service  as  a  dentist  was  required  at  Skinny 
Benoit's.  I  gave  Jenny  a  few  pennies  and  told 
her  to  sing  me  a  song.  She  clutched  the  coins 
in  her  right  hand,  hiding  them  in  the  folds  of 
her  bare-worn  calico  gown,  while  she  used  the 
left  hand  to  brush  back  the  long,  unkempt, 
vagrant  yellow  curls,  tossed  to  and  fro  by  the 
sharp,  snappy  breeze.  A  quick  shake  of  the 
head,  like  a  high-bred  horse  setting  out  to  win, 
and  she  sang  in  a  jerky,  sad  way: 

"J'ai   vu  la  fille  du  meunier: 

Comme    est   belle! 
Avec  son    bonnet  de  dentelle 

Qui   voltige   au   vent   printanier. 
J'ai  vu  la  fille   du  meunier. 
La  belle   fille, 
Au  gai, 
Au   gai, 
Chantait  le  long  de  la  charmille." 

I  turned  Toby's  head  and  took  the  narrow 
wood  road  that  leads  to  Skinny 's. 

Henriette  Benoit — better  known  as  Skinny,  on 
account  of  her  emaciated  form — lived  in  a  little 
maple  grove  that  yielded  enough  syrup  to  smear 
her  morning  buckwheat  cakes.  The  house  was 
a  log  one,  the  usual  kind  to  be  met  with  in 


I^  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

these  mountains.  Before  the  door  lay  a  few 
half-rotten  logs,  with  an  axe  carelessly  stuck 
in  the  butt-end  of  one  of  them.  I  drove  to 
the  rickety  door,  that  had  been  years  ago 
smeared  with  common  red  paint,  and  jumped 
from  the  sleigh.  Jenny,  with  the  grace  and 
ease  of  a  fawn,  had  preceded  me,  and  while  I 
tied  Toby  to  the  half-rotten  logs  she  threw 
affectionately  over  his  shoulders  my  big  buffalo- 
robe,  and  went  in  search  of  dry  leaves,  the  only 
dish  the  poor  thing  was  able  to  procure  for 
him.  I  pulled  the  latch-string  and  entered 
Skinny's  house.  There  is  no  ceremony,  no 
"  bowing  and  scraping,"  to  use  a  phrase  of 
William  Buttons,  about  a  country  doctor.  The 
women  folks  are  always  glad  to  see  him,  either 
on  account  of  present  or  impending  ills. 

Skinny  sat  near  the  stove,  with  a  huge  towel 
tightly  drawn  around  her  head.  As  she  rocked 
herself  on  her  rickety  chair  she  muttered,  "  Ah 
me  !  ah  mi  !  ah  mo  !  "  ending  in  a  long-drawn 
sigh.  This  reminded  me  that  I  had  written  in 
the  medical  paper,  tabooed  by  Jenks  as  unsci 
entific,  "  that  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  escapes  by 
way  of  music." 

"What's  the  matter,   Mrs.   Benoit?  "   I  asked, 
and   put    my    medical     chest    on     the     plain    deal 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  1$ 

table,    littered   with   dishes   and   broken  crockery 
that   Jenny    had    got    from    the    neighbors. 

"  Take  a  seat,  doctor,  and  warm  yourself;  it's 
blustering  out,"  and  Skinny  rose  from  the  only 
chair  she  possessed,  and  sat  on  a  low  stool. 
The  chair,  stool,  and  rough  deal  table  were  the 
only  furniture  that  she  owned.  For  a  bed  she 
had  placed  some  oat  straw  in  one  corner  of  the 
cabin.  On  this  was  thrown  a  worn  mattress  of 
dried  shavings,  a  few  old  quilts,  whose  faded 
colors  told  of  long-gone  splendor,  and  a  thread- 
bare spread.  Despite  the  scanty  furnishings  of 
her  home,  there  was  about  it  an  air  of  .neat- 
ness and  cleanliness. 

On  the  walls  were  hung  a  few  religious  pict- 
ures, gotten  from  a  Jewish  pedlar  in  exchange 
for  maple-syrup,  and  a  large  framed  picture  of 
a  country  store  in  Canada,  with  a  young  man 
and  woman  standing  in  the  door  full  of  smiles 
and  happiness.  It  required  some  effort  to  be- 
lieve that  that  fair  young  bride  was  no  other 
than  the  towelled  Skinny.  "  Fact  is  a  harder 
pill  to  swallow  than  fiction,"  is  the  truest  thing 
that  Buttons  spat  out. 

"  You're  a  great  one,  Granny  Benoit,  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about  a  stump." 

I    opened    my   chest.       Skinny    took  no   notice 


X6  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

of  my  banter,  but  slowly  unfolded  the  towel 
from  her  head;  this  done,  she  pityingly  glanced 
at  me  with  her  little  bloodshot  eyes,  and  in 
evident  pain  opened  her  mouth.  I  held  the 
forceps  in  my  right  hand,  behind  my  back, 
while  I  curved  my  left,  making  a  rest  of  it 
for  her  old  white  head. 

"  Take  the  chair;  sit  higher,  and  lean  back 
your  head  in  my  arm,  granny." 

"Anything  you  say,  doctor,"  said  Skinny, 
following  my  commands.  A  look  into  the 
mouth  was  sufficient  to  reveal  the  cause  of  her 
pain.  The  one  tooth — the  only  reminder  left 
of  the  pearly  row  so  prominent  in  the  framed 
picture — had  got  to  go.  To  use  one  of  our 
mountain  phrases,  "  For  years  it  had  stood  there 
alone,  like  a  burnt  pine  log  in  a  bit  of  cleared 
land." 

' '  Are   you   ready,    granny  ? ' ' 

"  No,  doctor,  not  yet;  let  me  see  him  before 
you  pull  him  —  he's  the  last,"  and  a  tear 
wriggled  down,  winding  its  way  through  the 
brown,  drooping  wrinkles  of  her  face. 

Skinny  rose  from  the  chair,  pulled  out  the 
table-drawer,  and  brought  out  a  broken  looking- 
glass.  She  opened  her  mouth  and  gazed  long 
and  wistfully  at  the  solitary  stump,  the  cause 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  IJ 

of  all  her  woe.  I  leaned  against  the  rickety 
chair,  and  this  thought,  which  I  intend  to  put  in 
my  diary  as  soon  as  I  go  home,  came:  "  Man's 
a  queer  animal  wedded  to  his  infirmities." 

"I'm  ready  now,  doctor,"  and  Skinny  was 
in  her  old  position.  "  The  poor  fellow  has  got 
to  go,"  said  granny,  "  and  the  sooner  the 
better.  I  won't  flinch  an  inch,  doctor;  but  for 
Heaven's  sake  don't  break  it,  do  your  job 
thorough." 

I  nodded  assent — a  quick  jerk  and  the  de- 
cayed stump,  the  last  bit  of  her  beauty,  as 
Skinny  called  it,  lay  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 
A  sad  smile  hovered  over  her  face  as  the 
gaunt  fingers  lovingly  rolled  it  in  a  gingham  rag 
and  put  it  away  in  a  little  wallet  that  she 
carried  in  her  bosom. 

"  Faith,  granny,"  said  I  as  I  wiped  my 
fingers  with  a  piece  of  batting,  "  you  think  more 
of  your  enemies  than  I  would.  You  take  them 
to  your  heart."  Skinny  made  a  feint  to  smile. 
Looking  up  at  the  framed  picture,  "  I  once 
was  proud  of  these  same  teeth,"  said  she, 
"  and  of  this  old  face.  God  forgive  my  van- 
ity !  That  was  long  ago,  in  the  days  of  the 
framed  picture.  I  was  not  a  bad-looking  girl 
either,  if  I  do  say  it,  ugly  as  I  am  now.  But 


l8  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

what's  the  use  of  filling  strangers  ears  with 
the  things  that  made  Skinny  as  she  is  ?  "  She 
buried  her  head  in  her  towel  and  was  silent. 

It  seems  to  me  that  gossip  is  half  the  life 
of  a  country  physician.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion 
of  writers  to  hurl  hard  names  against  gossip; 
but  take  it  out  of  life,  and  surely  then  life  is 
not  worth  living.  The  philosophers  have  been 
great  gossipers:  that,  by  the  way,  is  worthy  of 
my  diary.  I  like  to  gossip.  Open  confessions, 
says  the  moralist,  are  good  for  the  soul.  My 
curiosity  was  excited,  my  appetite  whetted,  by 
granny's  words  and  way.  It  was  not  for  noth- 
ing that  she  burrowed  in  the  towel.  I  had 
extracted  granny's  tooth:  could  I  not  extract 
through  gossip  the  story  of  her  early  life,  and 
know  something  of  the  framed  picture  ? 

The  neighbors  had  declared  that  granny  came 
to  the  log  cabin  years  ago,  when  the  crazy  girl 
was  but  a  baby;  from  where  she  was  never 
known  to  tell.  I  pulled  the  stool  nearer  the 
stove,  and  sat  down  by  Skinny 's  side. 

'Will  I  get  cold  without  that  towel?"  said 
Skinny. 

'  No,  granny;  the  old  stump  drawn,  all  will 
be  well." 

"  Ay,    the   old    stump,"    muttered    Skinny   as 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  19 

she  told  me,  unasked,  the  story  of  the  framed 
picture — the  story  of  a  life. 

It  may  be  a  weakness  of  mine  to  listen  to 
my  neighbors'  business,  but  it  is  one  that  has 
given  me  much  pleasure.  Women  are  as  sup- 
ple as  ivy  plants,  is  a  mountain  saying.  They 
want  to  lean  on  something.  There  is  no  oak 
like  a  sympathetic  listener.  Skinny's  tale  was 
full  of  interest  to  me,  and  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  there  are  a  large  class  in  this  world  with 
the  same  kind  of  feeling  as  a  country  doctor. 
To  them  I  will  owe  no  apology  for  telling  the 
tale,  and  that  in  Skinny's  homely  way. 

"  My  father  came  from  Lyons,"  said  she, 
resting  her  head  on  the  shut  knuckles  of  the 
left  hand,  "  and  settled  in  Montreal.  He  had 
not  been  long  in  that  city  when  he  fell  in  love, 
and  married  the  Widow  Le  May,  that  kept  the 
baker-shop  in  Notre  Dame  Street.  Madame  Le 
May's  first-born  was  me,"  and  Skinny  laughed 
a  little  broken,  sorrow-fringed  laugh.  "  She  was 
the  woman  for  you,  doctor;  she  could  bake  more 
bread  than  half  a  dozen  men.  You  don't  believe 
it;  mats  cest  vrai.  A  few  weeks  after  my  birth 
she  died."  Her  voice  was  tremulous,  and  tears 
ran  down  her  crumpled  face.  "  I  often  shut 
my  eyes  and  think  I  see  the  kind  of  a  woman 


ao  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

my  mother  was.  She  had  long  black  hair, — 
that  I  am  sure, — and  her  eyes,  they  were  as 
bright  as  coals,  but  black,  black.  Her  mouth 
was  small,  and  her  cheeks  as  round  and  '  fat  as 
a  plum.'  I  described  her  one  day  to  my  father. 
4  Mon  Dieu,  Henriette  !  it's  your  mother.  She 
must  be  hovering  round  you  like  a  butterfly; 
she  did  like  you  uncommon  well.'  After  poor 
mother's  death  my  father,  who  was  a  dancing- 
master,  and  could  make  nothing  out  of  the  bak- 
ing, sold  the  shop,  and  opened  a  little  school  of 
dancing  on  St.  Catherine  Street.  Here  I  re- 
mained until  my  sixteenth  year,  when  the  life- 
struggle  became  too  great  for  my  father.  One 
day,  it  seems  like  yesterday,  I  was  standing 
over  the  tub  washing  some  shirts  for  him  (he 
was  always  particular  about  his  linen),  when  a 
young  man  opened  the  door  and  handed  me  a 
letter.  I  laid  it  on  the  dresser-shelf,  thinking 
it  meant  a  new  pupil. 

"  As  soon  as  father  entered  I  gave  him  the 
letter.  He  slowly  read  it,  spelling  out  the 
words,  and  hung  down  his  head. 

'  Are   you    sick,    father  ? '    I    asked. 

'  Not   sick,    but   tired,    Henriette.' 
4  I     thought     I     saw    a    tear    run    down    his 
cheeks. 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  71 

"'You  are  crying,  father,'  and  I  dropped  on 
his  knee,  put  my  arm  about  his  neck,  and  we 
both  cried. 

"  '  Henriette,'  said  my  father,  drying  his 
tears,  '  you  are  a  foolish  child ;  you  must  not 
cry:  we  may  be  happy  yet.' 

'  You  are  not  happy  now,  father — I  know 
you're  not,'  and  I  pressed  his  old  gray  head 
to  my  bosom. 

"  '  No,  not  happy,'  he  said, — his  voice  was 
like  his  own  old  fiddle  when  a  couple  of  strings 
were  broken, — '  and  you  may  as  well  know  the 
cause.  My  little  school  has  been  shut  for  the 
last  year.  I  could  find  no  pupils;  the  sacred 
art  of  dancing  is  dead  in  Montreal.  A  fellow 
called  Fournier  teaches  what  he  calls  a  complete 
course  in  six  lessons.  No  one  wants  to  study 
and  know  a  thing  thorough  in  these  times,  so 
all  my  pupils  have  gone  to  Fournier.  Whenever 
I  seek  a  pupil  madame  says:  "  M.  Bourbonnais, 
you  are  too  old  and  stiff  to  teach  ma'm'selle." 
'  Man  Dieu,  Henriette,  it  maddens  me — Bour- 
bonnais, that  taught  in  the  chateaux  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain;  Bourbonnais,  that  danced 
before  the  empress  and  was  complimented  by 
Taglioni.'  He  jumped  from  his  seat,  and, 
crumpling  the  letter  in  a  solid  piece,  threw  it 


22  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

into  the  fire,   and  stood  there  watching  it  burn. 

"'What  have  you  been  doing,  father?'  I 
said;  and  I  pulled  down  his  head  and  kissed 
him. 

"  '  Doing,  Henriette  ?  Earning  a  poor  living 
for  all  that  is  left  to  me  in  this  world — that's 
you,  dear.  A  poor  living  indeed,  but  working 
hard  for  it.  Every  morning  before  you  were 
awake  I  took  my  fiddle,  kissed  you,  dropped  a 
tear  on  your  pretty  face,  and  went  out  fasting 
to  earn  our  poor  breakfast. 

"  '  I  went  into  the  back  streets,  where  I  was 
unknown,  and  danced  and  played  for  a  sou. 

"  '  Some,  the  poorest,  were  glad  to  see  Henri 
Bourbonnais.  If  they  could  not  give  him  money 
they  gave  food,  which  I  carried  home  in  the 
pillow-slip  that  I  sewed  one  night,  while  you 
were  asleep,  in  the  inside  of  my  old  threadbare 
coat.  The  rich  passed  me  by  in  scorn.  Not 
a  few  gibed  me,  and  made  fun  of  my  music, 
and  laughed  at  my  dance.  Ah,  Henriette,  it 
is  so  easy  to  make  fun  of  the  unfortunate  ! 
Every  noon  I  came  home  smiling,  lest  you 
might  guess  the  truth,  but  sad  of  heart.  On 
my  way  I  visited  a  little  church,  attracted  by 
its  flickering  little  altar-lamp.  The  lamp  seemed 
always  to  be  going  out,  yet  managed  to  live  on; 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  23 

it  was  so  like  your  old  father  for  the  last  twelve 
months.  In  that  little  church,  to  the  right-hand 
side  of  its  main  altar,  you  can  see  in  yellow 
letters:  "  Come  to  Me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  refresh  you."  I  have 
knelt  for  hours  before  those  yellow  letters,  say- 
ing, I  am  heavy  laden;  and  asking  God  to  keep 
His  promise.  Will  He  do  so  ?  My  poor  old 
shoulders  ache.  Fiddling  and  dancing  will  soon 
be  beyond  me,  and  then,  Henriette — ' 

"  His  voice  broke  in  pieces;  a  big  clump  of 
sorrow  choked  him.  I  turned  away  my  head;  I 
could  not  speak. 

"  '  Give  me  my  fiddle,  child;  if  we  speak 
your  old  father  will  act  silly  about  these  things, 
and  you  will  ruin  your  pretty  face  with  tears. 
Let  the  fiddle  do  the  talking.' 

"  The  tune  he  played  was  one  my  mother 
taught  him ;  it  is  pretty  common  in  Canada  with 
the  Scotch.  The  best  I  can  remember,  they 
call  it  '  Highland  Mary.'  Big  Donald  McKinnon 
said  it  was  written  by  one  of  his  father's  chums. 
He  must  have  been  smarter  than  Donald,  or  his 
father  either,  to  have  picked  out  of  his  head 
such  a  sweet  song.  My  father  liked  the  tune 
on  account  of  mother.  He  used  to  say  he 
had  lost  everything  belonging  to  her  but  that 


24  SKINNY   BENOIT. 

bit  of  a  tune.  When  he  finished  I  took  his 
fiddle  and  put  it  in  the  old  green  baize  bag — 
my  first  piece  of  needle-work.  I  have  that 
fiddle  yet,  doctor,  and  I  would  starve  rather 
than  part  with  it. 

"  He  leaned  his  head  on  the  chair-back  and 
drew  a  long,  broken,  heavy  sigh.  Tears  ran 
down  my  cheeks  as  I  gazed  on  his  pinched  and 
worn  old  face.  The  old  clock  that  he  called 
Willy -Wag-tail  was  the  only  thing  I  could  hear 
in  the  house,  and  its  tick  was  as  loud  as  the 
stroke  of  a  hammer.  I  became  afraid  and  ran 
to  my  father.  I  tried  to  kiss  him,  but  his  face 
was  freezing  cold.  I  spoke  to  him.  I  watched 
his  mouth  for  an  answer.  Everything  was  so 
quiet  except  the  clock.  '  God  !  '  I  cried,  '  You 
keep  Your  promises — my  father  is  dead  !  ' 

"  I  must  then  have  fallen  to  the  floor.  The 
first  thing  I  remember  was  a  feeling  of  strange 
pains,  like  the  jags  of  a  thousand  needles  plastered 
over  my  body.  I  tried  to  raise  myself;  I  could 
not.  Then,  with  all  my  strength,  I  tried  to 
turn  on  my  side,  thinking  to  shake  off  the  pains. 
Strength,  did  I  say?  I  had  none;  and  so  I 
lay  like  a  log.  Now  and  then  I  could  hear  a 
voice,  a  sweet  voice,  telling  me  to  open  my 
eyes,  and  I  could  feel  a  soft  hand  pressing  my 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  25 

cheek.  The  hand  moved  to  my  burning  eyes, 
and  I  felt  something  soft,  cooling,  strengthening 
falling  into  them,  something  loosening  the  eye- 
lids, putting  out  the  fire  and  bidding  me  see. 
How  strange  was  that  seeing  !  It  was  as  if  I 
had  been  dead  for  years,  and  suddenly  awoke. 
I  was  in  a  large  room  full  of  little  white  beds, 
in  every  one  of  which  was  a  woman.  Some 
were  as  young  as  me,  others  younger,  some 
middle-aged,  many  old.  What  were  they  doing 
here  ?  For  by  the  light  that  fell  on  my  bed, 
through  the  big  red-curtained  window,  I  knew  it 
was  mid-day.  I  tried  to  speak;  I  could  not. 
I  wanted  to  say  one  word:  '  Father.'  My 
mouth  moved,  but  no  sound  came  to  my  ear. 
*"  Dazed,  full  of  fear  that  I  was  mad,  I  shut 
my  eyes,  and  again  I  felt  the  soft  pressure  of 
that  hand  on  my  cheek.  I  opened  my  eyes. 
Leaning  over  the  head  of  my  bed  was  a  sweet 
face,  with  a  big  white  frame  around  it,  like  the 
wings  of  a  bird.  I  knew  by  the  voice  it  was 
living,  and  that  I  was  not  mad.  '  Henriette,' 
it  said,  '  do  not  fear;  I  am  only  Sister  Marie. 
You  are  in  the  H6tel  Dieu.  I  will  take  the 
best  of  care  of  you  until  you  are  better.'  Ah, 
doctor  !  when  you're  sick  there's  no  music  like 
a  kind  woman's  tongue.  The  voice  of  Sister 


26  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

Marie  was  worth  the  full  of  your  sleigh  of  pills 
and  medicine.  It  gave  me  strength  then  and 
there  to  turn  on  my  side,  and  it  thawed  my 
tongue.  I  was  astonished  at  my  own  speaking, 
it  was  so  strong  and  my  tongue  was  so  easy. 

"  '  Where  is  my  father  ? '  was  the  first  ques- 
tion. The  sister  bent  down  her  head,  and  in  a 
soft  way  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  At  rest,  child ;  ' 
then,  turning  her  head,  '  Yes,  my  old  master, 
Henri  Bourbonnais,  good  old  soul,  lies  in  Mount 
Royal.  It  is  a  trial,  Henriette,  the  first  mile- 
stone of  sorrow  in  your  life;  but  accept  it.  It 
is  the  hand  of  the  Lord.'  My  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  the  sister  faded  away  like  a  bit  of  chimney 
smoke.  I  saw  an  old  man  surrounded  by  a  noisy 
crowd  of  boys,  jeering  and  laughing  at  his  thread- 
bare coat.  He  played  a  fiddle  and  attempted 
a  dance  to  its  music.  A  window  opened,  a  sun- 
burnt hand  tossed  him  a  sou ;  he  painfully  stooped 
and  picked  it  out  of  the  mud,  bowed  his  old 
white  head,  and  muttered,  '  Merci,  madame ,  ' 
passing  to  another  door.  I  followed  him  from 
door  to  door,  from  street  to  street,  until  he  en- 
tered a  little  chapel,  and  I  heard  him  cry  his 
burden  was  heavy.  A  white  figure  passed  and 
touched  his  forehead.  The  little  chapel  faded 
from  view.  I  opened  my  eyes.  I  heard  a  voice 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  «7 

saying,  '  The  Lord  keeps  His  promises.'  It  was 
that  of  Sister  Marie. 

"  '  To  be  left  so  young,  and  no  friends,  sister.' 

"  '  The  Lord  giveth  and  taketh  as  is  His  will,' 
said  she;  '  happy  are  they  who  submit.' 

"  '  Happy,  Sister  Marie  ? '  and  I  closed  my 
weary  eyes  in  sleep. 

"  St.  Henri  is  a  little  town  a  few  miles  out- 
side of  Montreal."  The  very  name  brought 
tears  to  granny's  eyes.  Her  story  was  gaining 
in  interest.  I  threw  a  big  pine  log  on  the 
smouldering  coals,  while  Skinny  continued: 

"  Doctor,  you  don't  know  how  much  I  love 
that  little  town.  As  soon  as  I  was  well  the 
sisters  found  me  a  place  there  with  a  family 
called  Cartier.  It  was  so  lonely  at  first  that  I 
wanted  to  die  and  be  with  father.  One  day 
Dr.  Cartier  sent  me  to  Napoleon  La  Flamme's 
for  a  loaf  of  bread.  Napoleon  kept  his  little 
shop  a  few  doors'  distant.  It  was  a  neat  little 
place,  and  Napoleon,  if  I  do  say  it,  was  such  a 
bon  garqon.  Look  at  his  picture,  doctor,  beside 
me.  It's  as  like  him  as  two  peas  on  the  one 
bush.  My  picture  has  changed  for  the  worse. 

"  When  I  went  into  his  shop  he  was  all 
smiles.  He  left  half  a  dozen  of  his  customers 
waiting  and  came  to  me.  '  Comment  qa  veus, 


28  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

Ma'm'selle  Bourbonnais  ?'  he  said ;  and  then  I  saw 
all  the  customers  winking  and  shaking  their  heads. 
I  would  have  cried  then  had  not  Jenny  Lavoie 
said  to  Victoria  Borsu,  '  I  don't  see  what  Napo- 
leon sees  in  that  black  thing.1  That  was  me. 
After  that  I  was  mad,  and  made  up  my  mind 
to  spite  them.  '  I  am  very  well,  Mr.  Napoleon 
La  Flamme,'  said  I;  'and  how  be  yourself?' 
'  Between  fairly  and  middling,'  said  he,  '  Ma'm'- 
selle Bourbonnais;'  and  he  wrapped  my  loaf  in 
white  paper, — that  was  the  best  kind  he  had  in 
the  store, — and  tied  it  with  a  red  string. 

"  '  That  will  hold,  I'll  warrant  you,  Ma'm'selle 
Bourbonnais.'  I  took  my  loaf  and  went  out. 
Victoria  and  Jenny  made  faces  at  me;  even  Mrs. 
Chapuis,  that  lives  next  door  to  Cartier's  and 
goes  to  church  every  morning,  called  me  Mon- 
treal boue.  When  I  was  on  the  front  step  I 
could  hear  Napoleon  saying,  '  Girls,  she's  a 
rattler.'  I  was  so  proud  that  I  let  the  loaf  fall 
on  the  ground.  Only  for  the  red  string  and 
the  white  paper  the  loaf  would  have  been  de- 
stroyed outright. 

Dr.  Cartier  was  a  little  bit  of  a  man,  always 
scolding  about  things  that  did  not  concern  him. 
Mrs.  Cartier  was  a  big,  raw-boned  woman,  that 
spent  her  time  lying  on  a  sofa  reading  novels — 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  29 

that  kind  of  books  with  yellow  covers.  I  was 
to  do  all  the  housework,  besides  washing  two 
dirty-looking  dogs,  Gyp  and  Fan,  in  the  suds 
every  Saturday.  One  Saturday  I  put  Gyp  in 
the  tub  and  turned  the  kettle-spout  on  his 
back.  I  reckon  it  was  a  little  warm,  for  he  did 
what  he  had  never  done  before — jumped  from 
the  tub  yelling  like  a  scalded  young  one,  and 
ran  to  Mrs.  Cartier,  spotting  all  her  book,  as 
she  said,  with  dirty  water.  My  mistress  called 
the  doctor  and  told  him  that  I  had  warmed 
Gyp  up  to  boiling.  Then,  shaking  her  finger 
at  me  and  turning  to  her  husband,  she  said, 
4  Love,  attend  to  that  asylum  girl;  this  book 
is  so  interesting.'  The  doctor  ran  at  me  like 
a  T>ear,  danced  all  around  me,  called  me  hard 
names,  threatened  me  with  prison,  and  ended 
by  slapping  my  face.  As  soon  as  he  left  the 
kitchen  I  took  my  hat  and  went  down  to  Napo- 
leon's shop.  There  was  nobody  in  but  Napoleon. 
As  soon  as  I  saw  him  I  began  to  cry  and  wish 
myself  dead. 

"  '  Henriette,'  said  Napoleon,  fixing  me  a  seat 
on  a  cracker-barrel  and  sitting  down  by  my  side, 
'  these  Cartiers  are  a  low  set.  They  sprung 
from  nothing,  as  you  can  easy  see.  They  have 
killed  a  dozen  girls,  and  they'll  kill  you  if  you 


JO  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

don't  get  out.  Now,  I'm  lonely.  I  have  a  good 
store,  five  hundred  dollars  in  bank,  two  cows  and 
a  year-old  heifer,  all  in  tip-top  condition.  I 
have  a  home,  you're  out  of  a  home;  let  us 
strike  a  bargain.  If  you're  in  it  let  me  kiss  you 
to  seal  it,'  and  he  stretched  his  neck  under  my 
mouth. 

"I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but,  law 
me,  doctor,  what  a  powerful  kiss  Napoleon  gave 
me!  '  My  brand  is  on  you  now,'  says  he,  '  and 
you  need  have  no  fear  for  the  Cartiers.' 

"  Just  then  Jenny  Lavoie  came  in  with  a  terri- 
ble face  on  her.  '  Shake,'  says  Napoleon;  '  Hen- 
riette  and  I  are  engaged.  Take  a  bid  to  the 
wedding.'  Jenny  walked  up  to  me  and  kissed 
me,  whispering  in  my  ear  that  it  was  her  that 
put  Napoleon's  mind  on  me  as  just  the  thing 
he  wanted.  You  don't  know,  doctor,  how  much 
deceit  and  lying  there  is  in  Canada.  The  wed- 
ding was  a  grand  affair.  Everybody  was  asked 
and  everybody  came.  It  lasted  three  days, 
with  a  new  fiddler  every  night.  That  first  year 
was  all  joy,  doctor."  And  Skinny,  possibly 
comparing  it  with  the  gloomy  years  that  fol- 
lowed it,  used  the  towel  on  her  reeking,  blood- 
shot eyes. 

'  They    say    that    every    calm    calls    a    storm ; 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  31 

it  was  so  with  me,'  continued  Skinny.  "  About 
a  year  after  the  birth  of  my  son  Frank  there 
came  what  Napoleon  called  a  crash.  Money 
left  the  country  all  at  once,  and  Napoleon's 
books  were  filled  with  trust.  The  best  farmers 
had  not  a  sou.  On  an  evil  day  Napoleon  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  James  Weeks  —  him  that 
runs  the  Hunter's  Paradise  in  Squidville.  The 
prospects,  wrote  Jim,  are  on  the  ups,  and  a 
good  thing  might  be  made  by  logging  it  on  the 
Salmon  River.  So  Napoleon  sold  his  little  shop 
—  that's  the  picture  of  it  that's  framed  —  and 
came  to  Squidville.  Work  was  scarce  that  win- 
ter, so  in  the  next  fall  Napoleon  went  to  guid- 
ing." 

Her  voice  was  low,  passion-tossed,  and  trem- 
ulous. "Jim  Weeks  got  him  a  party  from 
New  York;  their  name  was  Jenks.  There  was 
in  that  party  Dr.  Jenks,  his  wife,  and  his  son 
— a  young  man  of  twenty-three  or  there- 
abouts." 

Tears  were    flowing   freely  from  granny's  eyes. 

"  The  first  day's  hunt  was  started  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mud  Pond,  Blind  Cagy  putting  out  the 
dogs,  as  he  knew  the  lie  of  the  country  better 
than  Napoleon.  At  the  burnt  hill  Cagy  came 
on  a  doe  and  two  fawns.  The  dogs  tracked 


32  SKINNY    BENOIT. 

the  fawns;  and  you  know  how  fawns  fool  a  dog, 
scooting  here  and  there;  so  Napoleon,  thinking 
to  help  the  dogs  a  bit,  crept  through  the  brush, 
keeping  his  eye  peeled,  as  Cagy  said,  for  the 
old  one,  that  was  pretty  nigh  the  youngsters. 
Young  Jenks,  who  was  watching  one  of  the  run- 
ways, saw  him,  and,  having  no  learning  about 
hunting,  thought  he  was  a  deer.  He  took  aim 
and  fired,  killing  poor  Napoleon  on  the  spot. 
"  That's  what  there  is  to  that  picture,  doctor." 
Just  then  laughing  Jenny  came  in  singing: 

"  Monsieur  d'Marlbrook  est  mort, 
Mironton,  mironton,   mirontaine; 
Monsieur  d'Marlbrook  est  mort, 
Est  mort  et  enterr6." 

"  What  about  Jenny  ?  "  I  asked. 

Skinny  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  towel. 
Looking  out  on  the  coming  darkness,  in  a 
broken  way  she  muttered: 

'  The  night's  a  bad  one;  the  wind  is  up,  and 
there  may  be  a  drift;  besides,  Toby  has  the 
shivers.  Go  home,  doctor;  that's  another  story, 
to  be  told  some  other  day." 

"Come,  Jenny,"  said  Skinny,  turning  to  the 
child,  "  the  big  black  dog  is  out;  get  to  bed, 
or  he'll  eat  you  up." 


SKINNY    BENOIT.  33 

The  sweet  voice  was  silent;  the  mirth  had 
flown.  Crouched  in  a  corner,  with  wild,  glitter- 
ing eyes  and  painful  face,  was  Jenny  Sauve". 

I  went  out,  jumped  into  my  cutter,  wrapped 
myself  in  fur,  and  away  went  Toby. 


34  BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES. 


CHAPTER    II. 

BILLY    BUTTONS    RELATES. 

THERE  were  but  two  holidays  in  Squidville: 
one  was  election- day,  when  all  the  choppers  were 
supposed  to  show  their  colors  and  vote  for  Pink 
or  Punk,  as  their  "  convictions  were  in  it,"  to 
use  one  of  their  characteristic  phrases;  the 
other  was  the  Fourth  of  July,  when  the  sur- 
rounding towns  as  far  as  Snipeville  came  in  a 
body  to  celebrate  that  glorious  day  in  front  of 
Jim  Weeks'  hotel. 

Election-day  was  mostly  passed  in  arguing  the 
respective  differences  of  the  two  great  political 
parties;  or  listening  to  the  slippery  wisdom  of 
Weeks,  who,  belonging  to  neither  party,  was 
considered  of  both.  Women  were  not  allowed 
"to  twang  their  muzzle" — another  Squidville 
saying — on  such  occasions.  "  A  woman  has  no 
more  right  in  politics  than  a  crow  in  a  corn- 
field," said  Buttons  to  Charlie  Parker,  who  had 
spent  a  winter  in  Oberlin  College,  and  came 
back  full  of  women's  rights  and  tariff.  Buttons 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  35 

was  highly  applauded  for  his  forcible  utterance; 
even  Weeks,  whose  verdict  was  final,  was  heard 
to  say  that  "  a  sprinkling  of  college  made  a 
man  a  fool,"  as  any  living  body  could  see  by 
the  ranting  of  that  Parker  lad.  Buttons  was  not 
much  of  a  hand  at  ciphering  out  the  papers, 
but  "  wherever  he  got  his  pickin's  he  walked 
straight  away  from  that  Parker  on  the  woman 
business."  Poor  Parker  died  soon  after  of  lung 
trouble,  and  not  a  few  of  our  folks  said  that 
it  was  Weeks'  way  of  putting  it  that  made  him 
go  off  so  soon. 

The  Fourth  of  July  was  a  different  kind  of 
holiday.  Jim  Weeks  donated  his  grove,  and 
the  picnic,  under  the  auspices  of  the  St.  Jean- 
Baptiste  Society,  was  an  amiable  affair  for  char- 
ity's sake.  Every  kind  of  conveyance  was  taken 
from  its  hiding-place  and  made  tidy  to  do  ser- 
vice on  that  day.  Mothers  for  months  had 
saved  their  pennies  on  butter  and  eggs  to  buy 
white  waists  and  red  skirts  for  their  daughters. 
White  straw  hats  with  black  bands,  showy  scarfs, 
mostly  of  a  bright  red  color,  and  cheap,  flashy 
jewelry,  as  breast-pins,  rings,  and  watch-chains, 
had  materially  reduced  the  hard-earned  winter's 
pay  of  the  young  men.  What  of  that  ?  It 
was  Squidville's  way;  and  here  I  remark,  with 


36  BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES. 

Cagy,  that  to  set  yourself  up  against  the  ways 
of  your  neighbors  "  shows  that  your  roof  needs 
shingling."  Everybody  was  supposed  to  be 
happy  on  the  Fourth.  The  old  men  for  that 
day  were  young,  and  indulged  in  such  harmless 
sports  as  running  up  greased  poles,  catching  but- 
tered pigs,  or,  tied  in  bags,  running  races. 
Women  were  free  to  gossip,  cajole,  coax.  Man 
was  the  victim  of  her  wiles  that  day,  and  the 
money  gained  by  her  arts,  when  the  day's  en- 
joyment was  over,  was  lovingly  given  to  Pere 
Monnier,  whose  kindly  smile  was  a  great  reward. 
It  was  the  proud  boast  of  Weeks  that  there 
was  but  one  religion  in  Squidville  that  day,  and 
that  was  love  for  Pere  Monnier,  whose  strong, 
man-loving  nature  had  conquered  creeds  and 
races.  The  Fourth  was  a  rare  day,  given  up  to 
music,  drollery,  horse-racing,  and  horse-trading. 
It  came  rather  strange  to  the  folks  of  Squid- 
ville to  have  another  holiday  added  to  their 
scanty  list.  Those  who  have  stopped  over  a 
night  at  the  Hunter's  Paradise  have  had  their 
ears,  I  reckon,  filled  with  how  came  Hirarn 
Jones'  day. 

Cagy  tells  the  story  well,  but  I  prefer  But- 
tons' way  of  handling  it.  It  was  while  on  a 
professional  visit  to  Mrs.  Andrieux,  last  winter, 


BTLLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  37 

that    I    stopped  with   my  old   friend    Weeks,  and 
heard  Buttons  tell  the  story  after  this  fashion: 

Rev.  Harrison  Gliggins,  our  pastor  of  well- 
nigh  five-and-forty  years'  standing,  rich  in  the 
promises  of  his  Maker,  had  passed  the  portals 
of  the  beyond,  joined  the  many  on  the  great 
camping-ground.  Brother  Gliggins  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Appomattox  Lodge  of  the  G.  A.  R., 
and  one  of  the  charter  members  of  Brimstone 
Lodge  of  I.  O.  O.  F.  The  Porcupine  Pioneer 
spoke  of  him  as  "  a  man  of  metallic  physique, 
a  sweet  poet  whose  '  Bid  Me  Bloom  Again  ' 
will  last  as  long  as  the  Adirondacks. "  To  fill 
the  place  of  such  a  man  was  no  easy  job. 
The  congregation  that  he  had  built  up  and  held 
by  the  spell  of  his  voice,  after  his  death  had 
become  disorganized.  There  were  many  causes 
at  work  to  destroy  the  forty-five  years'  work  of 
our  dead  brother.  One  of  the  strongest  was 
Jim  Weeks,  urged  by  his  daughter  Mary  to 
introduce  a  bit  of  music  into  the  church. 
Weeks'  idea  was  to  get  a  melodeon  and  let 
Mary  play — be,  as  folks  said,  "  a  kind  of  an  or- 
ganer."  A  good  many  that  had  sat  at  the  feet 
of  Brother  Gliggins  for  thirty  years  would  not 
hear  of  any  new  patented  thing  like  one  of 
these  melodeons  squealing  in  church.  "  It 


38  BILLY    BUTTONS    RELATES. 

would,"  said  Sal  Purdy,  who  had  led  the  choir 
during  the  life  of  Brother  Gliggins,  "  make  a 
pandimion  in  the  church;"  and  everybody  knew 
what  Gliggins  used  to  say:  "  Show  me  the 
pandimion  and  I'll  show  you  Satan."  Weeks' 
only  daughter,  Mary,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  had 
spent  a  few  months  in  New  York  City,  and 
while  there,  under  the  distinguished  teaching  of 
Mademoiselle  Grondier,  had  learned  to  play 
"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  "  Mansions  in  the 
Sky."  The  proud  father  had  purchased  an 
organ  for  his  daughter  in  Malone,  and  set  it  in 
the  most  conspicuous  corner  of  his  cosey  parlor. 
The  highest  tribute  he  could  pay  a  friend  was 
an  invitation  to  this  parlor,  where  Mary,  mind- 
ful of  her  accomplishments,  threw  back  her  long 
yellow  curls,  casting  a  glance  at  the  open  music- 
sheets,  while  she  sang  in  her  soft  mountain  voice 
her  treasured  and  envied  repertory.  It  was  the 
ambition  of  Weeks'  life  to  have  those  "  same 
bits  of  melody  swinging  through  the  church, 
and  Mary  just  showing  them  from  the  loft  that 
people  don't  go  to  New  York  for  nothing." 
Mary  had  lost  her  mother  in  infancy;  her  father 
remained  unmarried  for  the  sake  of  the  child, 
who  was,  as  he  delighted  to  tell,  "  the  dead 
spit  of  her  mother."  A  kind  lady,  who  was 


BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES.  39 

accustomed  to  board  at  her  father's  hotel  every 
summer,  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  pretty, 
motherless  child.  After  many  entreaties  she  per- 
suaded Weeks  to  let  Mary  pass  a  few  months 
every  winter  in  New  York  City. 

A  few  weeks  of  her  second  winter's  visit  had 
passed  sight-seeing,  and  adding  a  new  hymn  to 
her  slender  repertory,  when  she  received  a  letter 
from  her  father  stating  that  "  many  of  the  folks 
were  a-coming  over  to  the  hymns  in  church, 
since  it  had  been  explained  to  them  that  all 
the  churches  were  a-running  in  the  music  line. 
Even  Sal  Purdy,  since  her  last  visit  to  Mr. 
Perkins,  of  Snipeville,  who  boldly  told  her,  with- 
out putting  a  finger  in  his  mouth,  that  music 
w*s  much  made  of  in  the  Scriptures,  was  a-com- 
ing in;  so  you  may  hold  yourself  in  readiness," 
wrote  the  proud  father,  "  as  soon  as  you  come 
home,  to  be  our  organer. " 

A  postscript  added  that  "  as  yet  they  were 
without  a  minister,  but  from  the  many  applica- 
tions they  hoped  soon  to  have  a  man  full  of 
the  Lord  in  their  midst."  Mary  kissed  the 
letter,  crumpled  it  in  her  skirt-pocket,  and  dreamt 
that  night  of  her  far-off  mountain  home.  The 
attractions  of  the  great  city,  so  strange  on  her 
first  acquaintance,  were  becoming  fascinating  — 


40  BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES. 

she  forgot  Squidville  with  the  coming  of  morn- 
ing. Vacation-time  sped  quickly.  To  this 
girl  from  the  heart  of  the  Adirondacks  that 
vacation  had  been  a  fairy  dream.  When  the 
time  to  return  came  a  strange,  wild  rebellion 
against  her  dismal  country  life  was  born  in  her 
soul. 

"  How  happy  you  are,  Miss  Grondier, "  she 
said,  not  daring  to  look  her  teacher  in  the  face, 
"to  be  able  to  live  in  this  great  city.  I  am 
miserable.  I  hate  that  horrid  Squidville.  It 
will  be  so  dull.  Just  think  that  in  ten  minutes 
more  my  train  will  leave  here;  and  who  knows 
if  I  shall  ever  come  back  ? ' ' 

"  What  a  beautiful  station  this  Grand  Central 
is,"  said  the  astute  teacher,  leading  her  pupil 
to  other  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  and  Mary  Weeks' 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  "  That's  the  reason 
I  hate  to  leave  it.  Everything  is  beautiful  in 
this  city.  To-morrow  morning  at  eight  I  will 
get  off  this  train,"  —  Mary  burst  into  wild 
laughter, — "  and,  goodness,  Miss  Grondier,  our 
depot  is  about  the  size  of  that  coal-box.  Here, 
look  what  houses  are  around,  and  what  lights. 
Our  depot  is  in  the  woods, — nothing  but  woods, 


BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES.  41 

woods, — and  the  only  light  at  this  time  of  night 
is  Billy  Buttons'  lantern,  and  then  the  half  of 
the  time  it  is  out." 

"  You  will  soon  forget  this  city,  child,"  said 
Miss  Grondier,  kissing  her  crying  pupil. 

"  All  aboard  !"  said  the  colored  porter,  and 
the  train  moved  out  of  the  great  city,  bearing 
away  a  girlish  heart. 

Miss  Grondier  waved  a  handkerchief,  shed  a 
tear  with  some  effort,  and,  hurrying  through  the 
depot  to  the  street,  entered  a  street-car  home- 
ward bound. 

The  train  sped  quickly  on,  past  city  and 
sleeping  hamlet,  entering  the  great  forest,  sound- 
ing the  death-knell  across  lovely  lakes  to  the 
wild  deer  that  browsed  among  their  reeds. 
Mary's  sleep  was  calm  and  unbroken. 

"  Next  station  Ringville  !"  shouted  the  colored 
gentleman.  Mary  jumped  from  her  cot,  and  in 
her  eagerness  to  see  the  little  coal-box  station 
once  more  forgot  the  great  city.  The  train 
stopped.  Mary  grasped  her  little  travelling-bag 
and  was  soon  on  the  platform  in  the  embrace 
of  her  father. 

"  Mary,  Mary  !  "  shouted  the  frantic  father, 
"  you  must  never  leave  me  again.  I'm  getting 


42  BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES. 

old.  Everything  is  a  kind  of  queer  around  the 
house  since  you  left.  My  hotel  has  been  a 
barrack  for  the  last  two  months." 

"  That's  the  truest  word  in  your  life,"  said 
Buttons,  grasping  Mary's  hand. 

"  I  got  a  kind  of  new  coat,  Mary,  to  give 
you  a  welcome,"  said  Cagy,  cramping  the  wagon 
that  was  to  bear  away  the  first  girl  in  Squid- 
ville. 

"  Come,  Mary,  jump  in  the  wagon;  I  long  to 
see  you  at  the  Hunter's  Paradise.  I  left  La 
Flamme's  dogs  to  watch  the  premises;  so  I 
worry,"  said.  Weeks,  helping  his  daughter  to 
seat  herself  in  the  wagon. 

"  No    fear,"   said    Cagy,  taking  the   reins. 

"  It's  a  go  !  "  shouted  Weeks,  clapping  his 
daughter's  back,  and  away  went  the  wagon. 

Billy  Buttons  sauntered  slowly  after.  His 
thoughts  were  busied  on  the  fitness  of  Mrs. 
Poulet  to  be  his  wife,  and  the  means  of  accom- 
plishing such  an  arduous  undertaking.  He  was 
in  a  jovial  mood.  His  pipe  was  sending  out 
a  steady  smoke,  a  sure  sign  of  the  inward  peace 
of  an  Adirondack  guide.  "  I'll  just  step  in  and 
see  her,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  when  a 
voice  from  behind  shouted: 

"  I  say,  sir,  is  this  the  nearest  road  to  Weeks' 


BILLY   BUTTONS   RELATES.  43 

—  James  Weeks,  sir  ?  I  mean  Weeks  of  the 
Hunter's  Paradise,  sir." 

The  stranger  was  a  short,  stout,  good-looking 
man,  bearing  on  the  forties.  One  hand  clutched 
a  worn-out  satchel  stuffed  with  papers;  the  other 
held  his  eyeglass,  and  was  in  constant  use  in 
the  vain  attempt  of  adjusting  it  to  either  eye. 

"  Keep  right  ahead — follow  the  wagon-track, 
sir,  and  you  cannot  miss  it,"  said  Buttons. 
"  It's  the  only  frame  house,  sir,  in  these  parts." 

The  stranger  quickened  his  gait,  and  was  soon 
by  the  side  of  Buttons,  who  eyed  him  suspi- 
ciously. "  It's  a  fine  healthy  morning,  sir,"  said 
the  stranger. 

"  Healthy,  sir — that's  the  word.  It  would 
almbst  put  life  in  a  dead  man." 

"  Are  you  of  these  parts  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  of  these  very  parts.  I  am  known 
to  everybody  as  William  Buttons,  the  guide. 
What  may  be  your  name,  sir? — if  I  am  not  a 
little  out  of  my  way  in  asking  such  a  question." 

"  My  name,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  tugging 
on  his  satchel,  "  is  better  known  in  the  great 
metropolis  than  in  these  parts.  I  am,  sir,  an 
evangelist,  and  my  name,  sir,  is  the  Rev.  Hiram 
Marcellus  Jones.  People  call  me  the  Sweeping 
Cyclone." 


44  BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES. 

The  smoke  ceased  in  Buttons'  pipe.  He  was 
not  astonished — an  Adirondack  guide  rarely  is. 
Relieving  the  Cyclone  of  his  scanty  baggage,  he 
asked  him  if,  "  for  the  sake  of  the  nearness, 
would  he  not  just  cross  a  few  fields  ?  "  The 
Cyclone  willingly  assented,  and  Buttons,  with  his 
mind  on  Poulet,  save  a  few  odd  thoughts  on 
his  companion,  led  the  way  to  the  Hunter's 
Paradise. 

Sunday  was  a  lovely  day.  The  trees  were 
putting  on  their  spring  bonnets,  and  the  long- 
lost  warblers  flitted  in  song  from  tree  to  tree, 
happy  in  their  old  surroundings.  Here  and  there 
a  few  flowers  cautiously  peeped,  reconnoitring 
for  their  hidden  fellows.  Although  it  was  early 
in  the  morning,  smoke  crept  from  many  a  house- 
hold that  at  this  time  on  ordinary  Sundays  were 
accustomed  to  slumber.  Something  was  agog — 
and  that  something  was,  as  a  paper  posted  in 
Weeks'  hotel  said,  "  the  coming  of  Hiram  Jones, 
the  fertilizer  of  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord. 
Moody's  only  Christian  rival."  Hiram  M. 
Jones,  D.D.,  was  to  fill  the  pulpit.  Weeks' 
organ  had  been  carted  to  the  church.  Mary 
Weeks,  "  with  new  tunes,"  was  to  preside  at 
the  organ,  "  rendering  melodies  to  the  Lord." 
All  these  things  and  many  more  said  the  paper, 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  45 

"in,"  as  Cagy  remarked,  the  "  finest  words  that 
ever  dirtied  a  sheet."  Weeks  to  his  dying  day 
claimed  that  Mary  had  not  only  "  pasted  up  that 
notice,  but  had  composed  it  out  of  her  own 
skull."  It  may  have  been  so,  but  country  jeal- 
ousy would  have  it  otherwise.  The  little  bell  of 
Pere  Monnier's  church  sang  sweetly  over  the 
hills:  "  It's  just  ten  o'clock.  Come  all  to  Mass." 
In  answer  to  the  bell's  song  came  the  clatter  of 
horses'  hoofs,  and  the  merry  voices  of  old  and 
young  in  the  Canadian  patois.  They  had  to  be 
in  time,  for  Pere  Monnier  was  strict  as  to  his 
hours  of  service.  Following  on  the  heels  of 
Pere  Monnier's  flock  came  a  motley  throng  in 
all  kinds  of  wagons;  the  Squidville  stage  in  the 
lead',  containing  Weeks,  his  daughter  Mary,  Sal 
Purdy,  and  the  Rev.  Hiram  Marcellus  Jones. 
That  the  Cyclone  in  the  space  of  a  few  days  had 
converted  so  persistent  a  hater  of  the  melodeon 
to  a  staunch  supporter  was,  as  she  herself  put  it, 
"  of  powers  other  than  earthly."  The  strange 
procession  halted  at  the  meeting-house — a  small 
brick  building — and  entered.  The  exterior  was 
severely  simple,  while  the  interior  was  of  the 
homeliest  description.  The  pews  were  roughly 
hewn — paint  was  too  cheery  for  a  building  that 
was  only  used  once  a  week,  and  then  as  a 


46  BILLY    BUTTONS    RELATES. 

soul-chastiser.  There  was  an  attempt  at  a  pul- 
pit— the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  a  village  genius.  The 
attempt  was  fantastically  crowned  by  a  huge 
red  cushion,  the  gift  of  Gliggins*  second  wife. 
Behind  the  pulpit  was  a  sofa  of  faded  hues, 
whereon  the  minister  sat  during  the  singing  of 
the  hymns.  The  service  was  over.  In  front  of 
the  door  little  knots  of  men  and  women  gath- 
ered discussing  the  preacher  and  the  music  — 
things  now  inseparable.  The  centre  of  one  of 
these  groups  was  Weeks,  bowing  and  smiling. 

As  Sal  Purdy  came  within  range  of  his  voice 
he  shouted,  "  Sal,  what  do  you  think  of  Jones  ?" 

"Think,  Jim  Weeks?  I  ain't  able  to  think 
— I  am  about  '  curmuddled.'  He's  an  angel, 
that  man.  And,  bless  my  soul,  Jim  Weeks,  I 
wouldn't  live  without  music.  This  day  is  surely 
a  taste  of  what  he  called  beyond  '  the  im- 
pirnin  blue,'  "  was  Sal's  response. 

"  He's  a  Jim  dandy;  make  no  mistake  about 
it,  Sal,"  said  Berry. 

"  He  talks  like  a  book.  Didn't  you  see  how 
he  rolled  his  eyes,  pounded  the  pulpit,  knocked 
that  darned  cushion  down? — and  the  whole  busi- 
ness as  unconcernedly  as  I  would  chop  a  log," 
said  the  usually  sedate  Ike  Perkins. 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  47 

"  Well,  Jim  Weeks,  I  give  in  my  gun,"  said 
Bill  Whistler,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  no-music 
crusade.  "  That  sermon  was  a  corker  !  It  was 
so  powerful  that  old  Middy  Slack  cried;  and  for 
him  to  cry  it  takes  a  No.  i  preacher." 

Weeks  was  elated.  To  these  curious  remarks 
he  had  but  one  reply.  "  Boys,  Jones  's  the 
stuff.  That  sermon  was  onions  to  the  eyes  all 
round.  Let  us,  on  the  strength  of  it,  give  him 
an  unanimous  call.  All  in  favor  shout  aye;  con- 
trary, no." 

There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice.  And  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  Rev.  Hiram  Marcellus 
Jones  became  pastor  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church  of  Squidville.  Being  a  bachelor,  he 
preferred  a  room  in  Weeks'  hotel  to  any  log 
cabin  in  Pleasant  View. 

Under  his  loving  and  devoted  care  the  dis- 
organized congregation  became  organized.  Stray 
sheep  entered  the  fold,  and  his  power  as  a  preacher 
became,  as  he  loved  to  put  it,  "  manifest  for 
God's  glory."  He  had  many  calls  from  the 
neighboring  charges,  and,  being  of  a  travelling 
disposition,  he  generally  accepted  them. 

It  was  noticed  on  these  occasions  that  Mary 
Weeks  was  his  constant  companion.  "  Her 


48  BILLY    BUTTONS    RELATES. 

voice,"  said  the  Cyclone  to  a  brother  divine., 
'*  is  a  worthy  instrument  used  by  the  Lord  to 
prepare  the  way  for  my  preaching." 

The  first  year  of  his  pastorship  ended  in  glory. 
The  coming  year  it  was  announced  that  Brother 
Jones,  in  order  to  carry  out  more  satisfactorily 
his  work  in  the  ministry,  would  wed  one  of  the 
"  parish  folks."  This  announcement,  strange 
to  say,  caused  little  commotion  in  the  usually 
talkative  town.  When  it  was  later  authorita- 
tively stated  that  the  maiden's  name  was  Mary 
Weeks,  people  shook  their  heads  in  a  knowing 
way,  saying  to  each  other,  "  I  told  you  it  was 
bound  to  be."  That  marriage  was  the  greatest 
event  in  the  checkered  career  of  Squidville. 
There  came  nine  brother  divines  to  wish  Brother 
Jones  "  days  of  thankfulness  in  the  Lord," 
while  delegations  from  all  the  surrounding  settle- 
ments entered  Squidville  as  a  mark  of  appre- 
ciation of  the  "  mighty  revival  that  had  come 
to  pass,  so  to  say,  by  his  hands."  So  great 
was  the  throng  of  well-wishers  that  came  to  the 
marriage  feast  that  the  Hunter's  Paradise  for 
the  first  time  in  its  history  lacked  accommoda- 
tion. 

"  By  crackey  !  "  said  Buttons,  as  he  sat  on 
the  empty  soap-box  viewing  the  long  line  of 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  49 

strange  faces  that  passed  through  the  corridor 
that  led  to  the  hotel  dining-room,  "  these  long, 
thin-pointed,  whiskered,  shouting  click  will  eat 
our  friend  James  out  of  house  and  home." 

"  I  am  not  thinking,  William,  of  other  peo- 
ple's crooked  stomachs,  this  very  minute;  but  of 
poor  Mary.  You  know,  William,  that  chickens 
of  different  ages  don't  go  very  good  in  the 
same  coop,"  said  Cagy,  seating  himself  near  his 
inseparable  friend. 

"  There's  a  chunk  of  truth,  Cagy,  in  that 
very  saying;  besides,  an  old  plaster  is  a  poor 
remedy  for  a  young  sore.  But  it's  none  of  our 
business;  so  let  us  go  home." 

Cagy  aros,e,  and  the  two  old  guides,  sorrow- 
ing, ^went  down  the  road.  The  guests  in  the 
dining-room  sat  wondering  at  the  heaped-up 
plates  of  half  a  dozen  good  things  recklessly 
jostling  each  other.  Brother  Jones  gave  the 
word  of  command,  and  a  hundred  knives  and 
forks  made  a  quick  attack  on  the  plates.  When 
about  half  done  —  that  is  the  way  we  calculate 
in  these  parts  —  Bill  Whistler  moved  that  they 
should  name  the  day  "  Hiram  Jones',  and  keep 
it  till  Gabriel  sounds  the  last  roll-call."  Bill  was 
a  Grand  Army  man,  and  his  sentiments  were 
felt  to  be  in  the  right  tune.  It  was  passed, 


50  BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES. 

and  after  the  plates  were  cleared,  and  Brother 
Perkins  had  spoken  a  few  words  of  cheer,  the 
happy  couple  left  for  Snipeville. 

If  Brother  Jones  was  energetic  in  the  days  of 
his  bachelorhood,  he  was  doubly  so  after  mar- 
riage. That  year  he  founded  in  Squidville  an 
Endeavor  Society,  a  savings-bank  for  the  chop- 
pers, and,  in  partnership  with  his  father-in-law, 
started  a  shingle-mill — just,  as  he  said,  "  to  keep 
the  boys  in  work."  These  doings  for  the  good 
of  Squidville  made  people  bless  the  coming  of 
Hiram  Jones.  Two  men  stood  aloof  from  this 
chorus  of  praise — the  two  old  guides  who  had  loved 
and  known  Mary  Weeks  from  her  birth.  It  was 
their  outspoken  opinion  that  she  was  unhappy; 
and  they  pointed  to  the  fact  that  she  "  was 
sickly  and  pale,  and  not  caring  a  bit  for  music." 
Squidville  folk  laughed  at  the  clattering  of  two 
old  fools. 

Two  years  had  passed — years  of  prosperity  for 
Hiram  Jones.  His  parish  had  grown,  his  En- 
deavor Society  had  become  a  success.  Spirit- 
ually he  was  well  equipped.  Materially  his  bank 
had  all  the  choppers'  money;  his  shingle-mill 
was  on  "  the  ups,"  as  Weeks  said.  Weeks 
showed  his  appreciation  of  this  by  putting  all 
his  cash  into  the  business.  Squidville  on  its 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  51 

part  had  been  faithful  to  its  promise.  It  was 
Hiram  Jones'  day,  and  from  every  house  they 
were  coming  in  their  holiday  attire  to  do  honor 
to  their  benefactor.  The  place  of  meeting  was 
in  front  of  Jim  Weeks'  hotel. 

The  first-comers  were  a  little  astonished  to  find 
the  hotel  securely  locked.  '  No  amount  of  rapping 
could  rouse  the  inmates.  As  the  day  passed 
the  crowd  grew  large  and  uneasy.  Where  is 
Brother  Jones?  was  the  only  question  that  seemed 
to  take  life  on  the  lips  of  that  motley  throng. 
There  was  no  one  to  answer. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  many  had  come  from 
afar  and  were  anxious  to  return  to  their  homes 
before  the  coming  of  the  dark  spring  night. 
They  gathered  in  groups,  and  warmly  discussed 
whether  it  was  best  to  go  home,  or  to  break  the 
door  and  "  see  what  it  all  means." 

In  the  midst  of  these  discussions  a  huge  mas- 
tiff dog  was  seen  bounding  and  barking  up  the 
road.  A  hundred  voices  as  one  shouted,  "  Here 
comes  Pere  Monnier — see  his  dog  !  "  It  was 
true:  following  close  to  the  hound  was  the  well- 
known  form  of  Pere  Monnier  coming  their  way. 

"  Let  us  follow  his  advice,"  said  Whistler. 
"  I'll  warrant  it's  a  good  one." 

The    pastor    of    the    French-Canadian    church 


52  BILLY    BUTTONS    RELATES. 

listened  attentively  to  their  stones.  "  Go,"  said 
he,  addressing  himself  to  the  crowd,  "  and  wait 
in  the  grove.  I  will  knock  at  the  door — Jim 
Weeks  had  always  an  open  door  for  me.  It 
was  with  him  I  lived  when  I  first  came  amongst 
you."  The  crowd  hurried  to  the  grove,  while 
Pere  Monnier  struck  the  door  with  his  cane. 
It  was  quickly  opened  to  let  him  enter  and  as 
quickly  shut. 

Before  him  stood  Weeks,  pale  and  frightened, 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  his  limbs 
quavering,  and  his  voice  hollow  and  broken.  "  O 
Pere  Monnier — Pere  Monnier — my  old  friend  !  I 
wish  I  were  dead  beside  my  girl — my  dead  Mary  ! 
Jones,  the  scoundrel,  killed  her  by  inches  !  He 
left  a  week  ago  and  took  every  dollar  that  I 
had.  O  Pere  Monnier,  Pere  Monnier!  " 

"She  has  left  a  little  girl,"  said  the  doctor 
from  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "  Mr.  Weeks  has 
given  it  to  Mrs.  La  Flamme  —  her  they  call 
Skinny  Benoit — to  try  and  raise.  Come,  Skinny, 
and  see  the  pere." 

'  We  will  have  it  baptized  to-morrow,  pere, 
if  you  see  fit,"  said  Skinny;  "  and  I'll  be  true 
to  the  mother's  wish,  and  call  its  first  name 
Jenny;  but  as  for  its  second  name,  what  can  it 
be,  pere  ?  Weeks  won't  have  it  Jones." 


BILLY    BUTTONS   RELATES.  53 

"Call  it  Sauve","  said  Pere  Monnier,  entering 
the  dead  woman's  room. 

"  Ay,  pere,  Jenny  Sauv6;  cest  beau  nom  for 
a  youngster,"  said  Skinny. 

"  I'll  explain  all  to  the  people,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, taking  his  hat. 

Within  lay  the  corpse  of  Mrs.  Jones,  Pere 
Monnier  and  Jim  Weeks  bending  over  it;  near 
to  them  Skinny  Benoit,  pressing  to  her  bosom 
the  new-born  babe;  without  was  a  cursing,  howl- 
ing mob.  Thus  came  Hiram  Jones'  day,  to 
remain,  as  Bill  Whistler  said,  "  till  Gabriel  sounds 
the  last  roll-call." 


54  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 


CHAPTER   III. 

BUTTONS'   LOST  LOVE. 

ONE  July  evening  our  boat  lay  at  anchor  in 
that  beautiful  sheet  of  mountain  water  called  by 
the  natives  Round  Pond,  by  the  few  fastidious 
New  York  sportsmen  that  annually  visit  it  In- 
dian Lake.  We  had  whipped  the  pond  from 
early  morning, — I  speak  in  the  plural,  for  Billy 
Buttons  was  my  guide, — and  without  a  nibble  to 
keep  hope  in  expectancy.  The  burning  sun  had 
skin-furrowed  my  cheeks  and  pricked  my  flesh, 
while  legions  of  singing  mosquitoes  had  called 
and  held  their  irritating  conventions  on  the 
tracks  old  Sol  had  made.  I  was  uneasy;  But- 
tons noticed  this,  for  he  grasped  the  paddle 
and  with  a  few  quick  passes  brought  the  anchor- 
rope  within  my  reach,  shouting  as  he  did  so, 
"  Doctor,  pull  her  in."  A  few  jerks  and  I 
landed  the  anchor,  an  awkward-looking  stone, 
incased  in  black  mud,  in  the  bow. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for,  William?"  I 
asked. 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  55 

"  For  Charley  Pond,  doctor.  There's  no  use 
in  fooling  any  more  here.  The  little  fellows  we 
don't  want,  and  the  big  fellows  ain't  in  the 
biting  humor;  and,  what's  more,  fish  on  a  tarna- 
tion hot  day  like  this,  doctor,  ain't  frying  in 
the  middle  of  the  lake;  they're  gone  up  the 
brooks  to  cool.  You'll  find  them  skulking  under 
the  elders.  What  a  tarnation  day  this  has  been, 
doctor.  But  here  goes!"  And  Buttons,  taking 
the  oars,  touched  the  waters,  making  scarcely  a 
ripple,  and  away  went  the  boat. 

It  may  be  foolish,  but  so  beautiful  was  the 
motion  of  the  boat  under  the  artistic  guidance 
of  Buttons  that  I  thought  it  was  alive.  Buttons 
had  some  like  thoughts,  for  he  said:  "  Doctor, 
I  haven't  much  in  this  world,  but  if  she  [the 
boat]  would  go  to  pieces  on  one  of  those  float- 
ing hemlocks  it  would  be  the  death  of  me. 
She's  as  skittish  as  a  kitten,  doctor.  There's 
no  duck  in  these  waters  that  can  do  the  bow- 
ing act  with  her.  She's  a  rattler,  you  may  pin 
your  faith  to  that  every  time.  What  do  you 
think,  doctor  ?  " 

I  simply  answered,  "  She's  all  you  say. 
Stumps  ahead,  William." 

"  She'll  dodge  them  by  the  bushel,"  was 
Buttons'  assuring  reply. 


56  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

We  had  passed  out  of  Indian  Lake  into  a 
narrow  channel  dangerously  dotted  with  half- 
burnt  pine  logs.  The  edges  of  this  channel 
were  lined  with  a  scrubbish  growth  of  dwarfish 
elder,  "  home  of  the  foxy  three-pounders,"  to 
cite  Buttons'  passing  comment.  From  these 
elders  floated  long  trailing,  sun-burnt  yellow 
moss,  like  the  dishevelled  hair  of  some  village 
beauty.  Guarding  this  dwarfish  growth  rose 
many  a  mile  of  stately  spruce  and  pine,  half  a 
century  ago  the  home  of  troops  of  yelping 
wolves,  now  the  playground  of  the  red  squirrel 
and  his  lesser  friend,  the  chattering,  greedy 
chipmunk.  This  channel  has  two  branches,  one 
broad  and  deep,  called  the  Salmon,  the  other 
gradually  becoming  narrower  and  narrower  until 
the  occupant  of  the  boat  can  comfortably  touch 
either  bank  with  outstretched  arms.  This  chan- 
nel is  difficult  of  access,  but  under  the  mas- 
terly skill  of  Buttons  difficulties  of  this  kind  were 
converted  into  pleasures.  Our  way  led  by  this 
channel.  Buttons,  as  was  his  way  when  he 
scented  sport,  broke  into  song  as  naturally  as  a 
bird.  I  remember  a  few  lines  of  it: 

"  Chantons,  chantons  1'air  du  dfepart 
Nagez   rameurs  car  1'onde   fuit, 
Lc  rapide  est  proche,   ct   le  jour  finit." 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  57 

As  an  answer  to  this  Canadian  boatman's  song 
eame  the  quick  sound  of  the  chopper's  axe, 
mingled  with  a  weak  human  attempt  to  follow 
the  lusty  song  of  William  Buttons. 

"  Get  a  hold  on  that  twig,  doc.,  and  jerk 
us  off  that  darned  stump,"  said  Buttons,  rising 
in  the  boat  and  leaving  the  weary  chopper  to 
indifferently  continue  the  song.  The  paddle  was 
exchanged  for  an  oar.  "That's  good,  doc.; 
another  jerk  and  she'll  get  there  as  sure  as  my 
name  is  Buttons.  Ay,  there  she  goes  as  straight 
as  a  pin.  See  how  she  shakes  her  noddle. 
Charley  Pond,  doctor — don't  you  see  it  peeping 
atween  the  bushes  like  a  cat's  eye  in  the  dark  ? " 

Then  addressing  himself  to  the  boat:  "  Don't 
be  rubbing  your  nose  against  every  stump  you 
meet,  or,  my  pretty  pet,  you'll  have  a  face  on 
you  as  black  as  a  crow's  wing  coming  home." 
The  boat  steadied  herself  as  if  obedient  to  her 
master's  will,  skilfully  avoided  a  huge  log,  and 
with  a  saucy  skip  made  her  first  bow  in  Charley 
Pond.  The  little  lake  is  wooded  to  the  very 
shore  with  the  finest  specimens  of  spruce,  tama- 
rack, and  pine.  It  is  rimmed  with  soft  moun- 
tain moss  in  many  a  tangled  form,  whose  bright 
hues  strangely  mingle  with  the  shadow  of  its 
guardian  trees.  A  few  canvasback  ducks  sport- 


5 8  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

ing  in  its  waters  eyed  us  long  and  curiously; 
then,  with  a  quick  wing  splash  and  broken 
chatter,  they  rose,  circled  above  us,  stretched 
their  necks,  and,  as  Buttons  said,  "  struck  camp 
somewhere  else."  Our  boat  by  this  time  was 
close  to  the  opposite  shore,  about  twenty  feet 
from  it,  by  the  side  of  a  wind-fallen  pine  that 
ran  into  the  lake. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Buttons,  "  get  your  anchor 
unfastened  and  hitch  your  rope  to  one  of  the 
branches.  This  is  a  great  place  for  trout,  if 
those  cursed  bull-pouts  will  go  asleep  and  leave 
the  bait  alone.  All  fixed  good.  Why,  doctor, 
you're  the  genuine  stuff,  what  Hiram  Jones  used 
to  call  '  Israel's  cream  ' ;  me  and  Cagy  were  the 
buttermilk.  I'll  be  bound  to  make  a  fisher  out 
of  you.  Throw  me  down  the  bait.  How  would 
a  minny  go  ?  Give  me  your  hook.  It's  baited ; 
throw  it  in;  no  splashing — gently,  doctor.  By 
crackey  !  you  have  a  bite ;  go  easy,  let  him  drown 
himself.  Good  !  keep  your  line  tight,  he's  com- 
ing on  the  run.  Hold  on;  keep  a  stiff  upper 
lip,  doctor,  and  I'll  get  the  net  under  him  in 
a  jiffy.  Conscience,  doctor,  he's  a  beauty  !  a 
good  two  pounds  if  he's  an  ounce." 

Encouraged  by  the  commands  and  comments 
of  Buttons,  who  caught  trout  after  trout  with 


\ 

BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  59 

the  utmost  unconcern,  now  and  then  slyly  drop- 
ping one  of  them  into  my  basket,  I  soon  was 
in  such  a  jovial  frame  of  mind  that  my  poor 
sick  patients  were  forgotten,  and  I  found  my- 
self proposing  to  William  Buttons  to  build  a 
bough  shanty,  and  spend  a  few  days  in  this 
most  delightful  retreat. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  was  William's  reply.  "  If  you 
would  do  that  folks  would  think  you  were  out 
of  your  head.  They  would  be  a-hunting  and 
scratching  for  you  all  over  the  country,  and  of 
course  come  here.  Then  what  would  happen  ? 
Every  crank  in  these  woods  would  go  a-fishing 
in  Charley  Pond  and  spoil  everything.  No, 
doctor,  we'll  soon  get  a  gait  on  us;  besides, 
there's  a  squall  a- working  to  us.  Unhitch  the 
rope;  I'll  make  for  Dory's  camp  until  it's  over." 

I  never  dispute  the  weather-knowledge  of  an 
Adirondack  guide.  A  dark  cloud  passed  over 
the  lake,  a  few  quick,  sharp  thunder-shots,  and 
a  serpentine  ribbon  of  brilliant  lightning  skimmed 
the  bosom  of  the  lake  as  lightly  as  a  swallow's 
wing.  The  wind  rose,  at  first  like  the  chat- 
tering of  birds;  then,  grasping  the  pine  trees 
and  swaying  their  branches,  sang  untranslatable 
requiems. 

The  placid  waters  jumped,  curled,  and   lashed 


60  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

the  shore,  rimming  the  lake  with  creamy  slobber. 
A  few  drops  of  rain,  then  a  quick  thunderclap, 
and  the  drops  became  torrents,  whipping  the 
already  infuriated  lake.  A  few  frogs  croaked 
their  unmusical  benisons,  while  we  quickly  pulled 
shoreward  and  hurriedly  sought  refuge  in  Dory's 
camp.  And  what  a  refuge  ! — but  any  port  has 
its  shelter  in  a  storm.  Dory's  was  a  sorry  sight. 
The  roof  leaked,  and  the  wind,  charged  with 
rain,  took  its  own  way  through  the  doorless  and 
almost  roofless  camp.  Buttons  minded  little 
wind  or  rain.  "It  is,"  he  remarked,  "  a 
little  summer  coughing-fit,  that  will  soon  rid 
itself  by  a  good  rain-spit."  He  busied  himself 
in  making  our  quarters  comfortable  by  quickly 
erecting,  with  pieces  of  worm-eaten  boards  and 
barked  slabs,  a  comparatively  comfortable  abode. 
A  few  cracker-boxes,  stuck  on  their  end  deep 
in  the  gluey  mud,  became  chairs,  while  a  broad 
board  resting  on  Our  knees  was  a  handy  table. 
This  done,  "  She  may  growl  all  night,  doctor," 
said  Buttons,  opening  a  can  of  dried  beef, 
while  I  cut  a  loaf  with  his  big,  long,  coarse- 
bladed  knife-of-all-work  into  huge  pieces.  An 
Adirondack  guide  wants  none  of  your  thin 
society  bread-slices.  There  is  a  charm  in  puff- 
ing out  the  cheeks  with  as  much  bread  as  the 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  61 

mouth  can  hold — that  is,  as  Cagy  says,  "  giving 
play  to  the  grinders."  When  Buttons  was  dry 
he  pushed  the  table  to  me,  .went  out,  threw 
back  his  head,  and  took,  as  he  said,  "  a  whack 
at  heaven's  spill."  It  was  of  little  account  that 
the  rain  fell  equally  on  the  other  parts  of  his 
face,  as  Buttons  claimed  that  all  the  skin-furrows 
drained  into  his  mouth.  Every  man  to  his 
taste.  I  admired  Buttons'  way  of  drinking,  but 
I  could  not  follow  it;  so  as  soon  as  Buttons 
was  seated  I  transferred  the  table,  upturned  the 
beef  from  the  can,  caught  some  of  the  "spill," 
and  took,  as  they  say  in  these  parts,  "  a  long 
pull  and  a  steady  pull." 

That  pull  finished  one  of  the  best  meals  in 
my  life.  As  I  sit  in  my  office  these  long 
winter  nights,  penning  these  old  memories  from 
my  diary,  sickened  by  medicine-smells  waiting 
»for  some  unfortunate,  what  would  I  not  give  for 
such  another  meal  with  Billy  Buttons  at  Dory's  ? 
Oh,  Charley  Pond,  Dory's,  heaven's  spill,  and 
Billy  Buttons  !  somehow  or  other  you  make  me 
sad  to-night.  When  I  was  a  younger  man  I 
wrote  in  my  diary,  "  Glad  days  are  sad  memo- 
ries." I  caught  that  sentence  one  day  passing 
Owl's  Head.  It  came  to  me — broke  through  my 
headful  of  prescriptions.  I  let  them  go,  and 


62  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

gleefully  bagged  it.  I  could  not  help  saying  to 
Toby,  "  I  have  got  a  good  thing."  Speaking 
even  to  a  horse  eases  a  fellow's  mind. 

"  None  of  your  pies  and  puddings  to  kick 
antics  in  my  stomach  after  a  good  meal,  but  a 
good  smoke  and  plenty  of  good  guff,"  is  a 
saying  of  Cagy's  much  quoted  by  Billy  Buttons. 

Buttons  is  not  the  man  to  quote  a  phrase 
and  go  contrary  to  it.  While  I  was  emptying 
the  beef-can  he  unrolled  his  big  black  plug  of 
tobacco  from  his  deer-skin  pouch,  cut  little  bits 
from  it,  placed  these  in  the  heel  of  his  left 
hand,  grinding  them  with  the  knuckles  of  his 
right.  This  done,  "  Take  your  seat,  doctor," 
said  Buttons;  "  pull  out  your  pipe  and  fill  it: 
I  have  crushed  enough  for  two." 

No  man  is  quicker  for  a  pipe  than  I.  Soon 
our  pipes  were  in  working  order.  Suddenly  the 
smoke  ceased  in  Buttons' ;  it  was  a  way  he 
had  of  being  solemn.  "  Doctor,"  said  he,  "  I'm 
a-thinking  mighty  heavy. ' ' 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  William  ?  "  I 
asked. 

4  The  only  thing  an  old  rounder  like  me 
thinks  about — old  times,  old  times;  about  the 
first  time  I  came  to  Charley  Pond,  and  built 
this  camp;  now  it's  gone  to  pieces.  I  feel  for 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  63 

it,  doctor;  it  seems  to  have  something  to  do 
with  me,  but  I  can't  cipher  it  out  in  talk.  I 
feel  it,  just  the  same.  It's  out  of  '  kilter,'  and 
I'm  going  the  same  way — that's  how  I  size  it." 
Buttons  hung  his  head.  I  watched  my  pipe- 
smoke,  and  listened  to  the  wind.  Gradually 
Buttons'  head  assumed  its  ordinary  position, 
and  the  smoke  rose  in  his  pipe.  His  cheeks 
were  wet. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  scholar,"  said  Buttons, 
drawing  his  glazed  coat-sleeve  across  his  face. 
"  I  would  write  a  book." 

"What  would  you  put  in  it,  William?"  I 
eagerly  asked.  "A  bear-story?" 

Buttons  answered  angrily:  "  Bear-stories  for 
New  York  sports  —  the  more  the  better.  This 
story  is  for  myself,  and  a  fellow  doesn't  want 
to  fool  himself  with  lies.  It  is  a  bit  of  a 
woman-story  that  has  hankered  around  my  heart 
a  good  many  years;  when  you  would  hear  it 
you  would  know  why  I  brought  you  here." 

I  frankly  admitted  that  the  life  of  a  country 
doctor  lends  itself  to  inquisitiveness  —  I  believe 
that  is  the  way  I  put  it  in  my  diary.  I  could 
not  sleep  without  knowing  that  story.  Would 
Buttons  tell  it  ?  How  could  I  start  him  ?  But- 
tons solved  the  difficulty. 


64  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

"  Doctor,"  said  he,  "I'm  not  the  man  to 
keep  a  story  from  you,  and  I  see  that  the 
bluster  outside  will  last  while  I'm  telling  it,  so 
here  goes:  a  man  must  have  a  beginning  to  a 
story.  One  night  while  I  was  sitting  with  Cagy 
by  Jim  Weeks'  big  office-stove  swapping  deer- 
stories,  an  old  gentleman,  a  young  lady,  and  a 
little  girl  came  in.  '  They're  city  folks,'  said 
Cagy.  I  planted  my  eyes  on  them.  '  So  they 
be,'  says  I;  'at  least  they  have  that  air  about 
them.'  '  Some  of  us  is  in  for  a  job,'  says 
Cagy;  '  they'll  surely  want  a  guide.'  Just  then 
I  heard  my  name  called  by  Weeks,  and  over  I 
went  to  his  desk.  '  Billy,'  says  he,  '  don't  you 
know  that  old  gent  that's  just  gone  up-stairs  for 
the  night?'  '  Not  from  Adam,'  was  my  word. 
'Why,  Billy,  that's  queer,'  said  Jim.  'That's 
old  Jenks  from  New  York,  the  father  of  the 
boy  that  shot  Skinny's  husband.  He  wants  a 
guide  for  the  summer.  Be  ready  with  your  kit; 
he'll  make  an  early  start.'  '  What  direction, 
Jim,  is  he  pointing  for  ? '  I  asked.  '  He  wants 
a  quiet  place,'  said  Jim,  '  where  he  can  build  a 
camp  and  be  entirely  alone.  His  daughter  is 
consumptive,  and  it  is  more  for  her  sake  than 
anything  else.  I  have  sold  him  our  old  board 
shanty  at  Charley  Pond.  You  will  soon  make  it 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  65 

slick  as  a  new  pin.  Cut  away  all  the  brush. 
Spick  her  up  in  good  shape.  You'll  find  a 
scythe  on  the  shed  roof.  If  you  need  any  tools 
you'll  find  them  in  Bill  Whistler's  log  house 
a-back  of  the  shanty.' 

"  Times  were  bad.  I  was  glad  to  get  a  job; 
so  I  sat  up  all  night  mending  my  old  clothes 
and  shining  my  gun.  By  the  break  of  day  I 
was  at  the  hotel.  Old  Jenks  was  ready,  and 
away  we  went.  It  took  us  about  six  hours 
to  get  there,  as  in  those  days  the  little  channel 
was  more  blocked  than  now.  Berry  and  La 
Jeunesse  came  along  to  make  the  carries  and 
clean  out  the  channel.  Jenks  was  delighted 
with  Charley  Pond.  He  ordered  the  board  shanty 
to  be  pulled  down,  and  a  log  cabin  built  in  its 
place.  We  could  tent  until  the  work  was  done. 
The  camp  was  to  be  called  after  his  daughter, 
whose  name  was  Dory.  In  a  week  all  was 
ready — a  regular  dove's  nest,  and  we  took  pos- 
session of  it:  Professor  Jenks,  his  daughter  Dory, 
the  little  girl  Milly,  and  your  true  friend,  Will- 
iam Buttons.  It  was  then  I  began  to  cast 
my  eyes  around,  and  see  in  what  company  I 
was.  Maybe  you  think  I  was  not  taken  off 
my  feet  when  Jenks  told  me  that  Dory  was  as 
blind  as  a  bat — that  her  eyes  were  full  of  cata- 


66  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

racts  !  I  could  hardly  believe  it>  as  her  eyes 
looked  natural,  and  she  used  to  find  her  way 
through  the  brush.  She  was  as  handsome  as  a 
picture,  doctor,  and  as  good  as  God  ever  made. 
Every  morning  I  used  to  watch  her  leaning 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  listening  to  the 
robins.  Sometimes  they  would  be  sleepy,  bob- 
bing their  little  heads;  then  she  would  sing, 
and  all  at  once  they  would  shake  their  wings, 
peck  their  bills  on  the  branches,  and  start  in 
song.  Then  she  would  laugh  —  a  very  merry 
laugh  at  first,  but  the  tail  of  it,  doctor,  was  like 
the  cry  of  a  loup-garou.  I  have  often  heard 
the  owls  answer  the  tail  of  that  laugh.  Every 
day  I  took  her  on  the  lake,  gathered  fresh  moss 
for  her,  baited  her  hook,  told  her  stories  of  the 
voyageurs.  She  was  a  fine  fisher — knew  how  to 
hold  her  line,  and  when  to  snap.  When  we 
came  near  logs  she  would  say,  '  William,  where 
are  they  ?  How  deep  shall  I  let  my  line  ?  ' 
I  would  tell  her,  and  no  man  that  I  have  ever 
seen  in  these  woods,  with  his  eyes  wide  open, 
snarled  his  line  less  than  Dory  Jenks. 

"  She  liked  the  lake  in  a  storm.  She  said 
she  could  understand  the  '  music  of  water  and 
wind-songs;  that  everything  was  full  of  music.' 
I  remember  how  she  used  to  sit  by  a  little 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  67 

brook,  with  her  small  white  hands  gloved  in  the 
soft  green  moss,  listening  to  its  prattle,  mocking 
its  song.  In  those  times  I  used  to  sit  near  her, 
my  heart  making  as  much  noise  as  the  brook, 
my  eyes  content — watching  her  every  move;  and 
some  kind  of  a  feeling,  that  I  never  had  in  my 
life  before,  creeping  through  me  and  making  me 
happy.  I  wanted  nobody  around  her  but  my- 
self; not  even  Milly,  who  was,  as  Dory  told  me 
one  summer  night  after  I  had  sung  to  her  guitar 
a  little  song  that  ends: 

'  Je   n'ai   ni  bien,  ni   rang,  ni   gloire, 
Mais  j'ai   beaucoup,  beaucoup   d'amour,' 

a  New  York  waif  taken  from  the  streets,  daughter 
of  a  drunken  Spanish  cigar- maker.  I'll  never 
forget  that  night,  doctor;  the  sky  was  the  color 
of  smoke  rising  from  the  chimney  on  a  frosty 
morning;  one  little  star,  about  the  size  of  a 
dollar,  was  like  a  gold  pin  stuck  in  a  white 
woollen  scarf.  The  lake  was  calm,  trouts  were 
jumping  here  and  there,  a  crane  was  sleeping 
on  a  pine  log,  a  few  night-hawks  were  buzzing 
along  the  shore.  '  It's  glorious,'  said  Dory; 
'  I  forget  my  pain.  Sing,  William,  one  of  your 
dear  old  songs;  I'll  accompany  you  with  my 
guitar.'  I  had  many  songs,  but  I  sorted  out  the 


68  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

one  with  the  lines  I  told  you,  because  I  wanted 
to  say  something  I  had  in  my  heart  by  some 
other  body's  mouth.  After  the  song  we  sat 
there  until  Milly  waved  a  red  lantern,  a  sign  to 
come  in.  I  was  angry  with  Milly  and  said  she 
knew  too  much  for  a  child.  '  Not  so,'  said 
Dory,  '  Milly  is  my  girl  —  and  promise  me, 
William  Buttons,  if  anything  happens  to  me  and 
pa — of  course  I  know  it  won't,  but  if  it  should 
— that  you  will  befriend  Milly.  Just  promise, 
William  Buttons — mountain  hearts  keep  promises 
— say  you  will,  William  Buttons.'  I  promised; 
she  pressed  my  hand;  a  thrill  of  wild  delight 
passed  through  me  at  that  moment. 

"  Months  passed  away.  '  Dory  was,'  said 
Professor  Jenks,  '  gaining  strength  every  day, 
finding  new  life  in  the  woods.'  Daily  he 
thanked  me  for  my  kindness  to  his  daughter, 
promising  to  well  repay  all  my  service.  His 
talk  stabbed  me.  What  had  money  to  do  with 
the  services  I  rendered  to  Dory  ? 

'  The  snow  came  one  morning  like  a  handful 
of  flour  thrown  here  and  there  on  the  ground 
and  on  the  brush.  '  It  was  a  good  day  for  a 
deer-hunt,'  said  Jenks.  '  Bill  Whistler  was  going 
out,  Cagy  was  to  meet  him  at  the  burned  land; 
would  I  not  take  Dory  in  my  boat  and  guard 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  69 

the  pond  ?  Dory's  one  wish  was  to  shoot  a  deer. 
She  would  be  safe  with  me.'  '  I  would  lose 
my  life  for  her,  professor,'  I  replied.  '  Of  course 
you  would,  kind  fellow;  all  you  guides  are  most 
devoted  to  your  parties.  I  shall  repay  you, 
have  no  fear,  William;  your  kindness  to  my 
poor  Dory  will  not  go  unrewarded,'  said  Jenks. 
My  blood  was  boiling.  Does  Jenks  think  that 
I  have  no  feelings,  that  I  am  like  all  the  guides, 
that  guides  merely  work  for  money? — would  lose 
their  life  for  it  !  I  muttered.  Jenks  shouldered 
his  gun,  kissed  his  daughter,  and  started  for 
Whistler's.  I  righted  my  boat,  helped  Dory  to 
her  seat,  and  pushed  out  from  the  shore.  It 
was  a  clean-cut  day;  a  little  sharp,  but  just  the 
thing  for  a  hunt.  A  loud  whistle  told  me  that 
Whistler  and  Cagy  had  met.  '  Shall  we  soon 
see  a  deer  ?  '  said  Dory.  '  That  depends, '  said 
I,  '  on  three  things — if  Cagy  finds  a  track,  if  the 
other  men  miss. him,  and  if  he  comes  here.' 
'  So  many  ifs,  William,  that  I  fear  we  shall  see 
no  deer  to-day,'  said  Dory,  fingering  her  gun. 
'  Don't  give  up  hope,  Miss  Jenks,'  said  I;  '  Cagy 
knows  I  am  here,  and  unless  he's  changed  a 
good  deal  Mr.  Deer  will  have  to  visit  William 
Buttons.'  'Hark  !  don't  you  hear  a  hound  away 
off  ? '  said  Dory,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 


70  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

sound.  '  I  do,  Miss  Jenks,'  says  I;  '  it's  Cagy's 
dog,  Mickey.'  'What  music  he  makes!  the 
whole  woods  are  filled  with  his  voice,  noble 
animal — now  he  stops  !  '  said  Dory.  '  They  are 
in  the  swamp,  Miss  Jenks;  the  deer  is  circling: 
there  he  goes — hear  the  dog  coming  this  way  ? 
You  will  soon  hear  some  shooting — that  is,  if  they 
are  on  the  right  runaways.'  '  I  don't  hear  the 
dog,  William — I  do  hope  he  will  bring  him  here,' 
said  Dory,  moving  restlessly  in  her  seat.  '  Hear 
him  now,  Miss  Jenks  ?  That  deer  never  was 
born  that  could  lose  Cagy's  dog;  he  lost  him 
in  the  poplars,  but  it  was  only  for  a  minute. 
Listen  !  the  deer  is  taking  a  sweep;  the  dog  will 
hang  to  him,  he's  bound  to  water  him,  trust 
Billy  Buttons  —  Cagy  would  shoot  a  dog  that 
would  give  up  his  deer.  Bang,  bang — six  shots 
— they  didn't  get  him — too  many  cracks.  Miss 
Jenks,  he's  coming  on  the  dead  run  for  Charley 
Pond.  Keep  quiet  and  he'll  get  more  than  he 
bargained  for.'  The  word  was  no  sooner  out 
of  my  mouth  than  a  huge  buck  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  stood  for  a  moment  with 
pointed  ears  listening  to  the  coming  dog,  shot 
his  eyes  around  the  lake,  plunged  in  and  swam 
for  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  but  the  work  of 
a  moment  to  cut  off  his  retreat  by  getting 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  71 

between  him  and  the  shore.  He  saw  this  — 
deers  are  no  fools;  his  eyes  flashed  like  lanterns 
in  the  woods  in  a  dark  night,  his  body  was  all 
nerves,  and,  turning  on  his  back  track,  he  was 
making  for  the  shore.  One  glance  was  enough ; 
the  dog  had  come  to  the  lake,  savagely  growled, 
closely  scanned  the  water,  and  saw  a  moving 
spot.  He  was  too  old  in  the  business  not  to 
know  what  that  meant — a  lively  bark  to  warn 
his  master  that  his  prey  was  secure,  a  dance  of 
joy,  a  plunge,  and  Cagy's  dog,  the  best  that 
ever  put  foot  to  clay,  was  swimming  towards 
him.  Now  was  the  time.  I  came  as  close  to 
Dory  in  the  boat  as  was  prudent  for  our  safety, 
and,  stretching  my  right  hand,  guided  the  barrel 
of  her  gun.  The  deer  was  but  a  rod  from  us. 
'  Shoot,'  I  cried,  and  the  sharp,  pleasant  clang 
of  the  Winchester  rang  over  the  lake  and  went 
a-rambling  in  the  woods.  A  sharp  cry  from 
Dory  and,  quicker  than  I  speak,  our  boat  was 
struck  by  the  deer's  antlers,  capsized,  and  Dory 
and  I  in  the  lake.  My  first  thought  was  of 
her;  there  she  was  struggling  for  life,  ready  to 
sink.  I  quickly  grasped  her,  held  up  her  head, 
and,  with  a  few  strokes,  brought  her  ashore. 

"  Whistler,  Cagy,  and  her  father  had  returned; 
they    heard    my    story,    sent    for    Mrs.    Whistler, 


•j2  BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE. 

tried  every  means  to  revive  her,  but  " — a  tear 
started  in  Buttons'  eye — "  she  died  in  two  hours 
after,  doctor.  Just  before  she  died  she  opened 
her  mouth  just  a  little  bit  and  said:  '  Charley.' 
That  word,  doctor,  made  me  stagger.  I  wanted 
her  to  speak  again,  but  it  was  not  to  be. 

"  We  buried  her  in  Squidville  graveyard,  just 
under  the  big  white  beech  tree;  it  was  my  way. 
Her  poor  old  father  had  lost  his  mind  and  could 
not  give  an  order  about  the  grave.  Weeks 
took  him  to  New  York;  that  was  the  last  I 
heard  of  him.  The  beech  tree — yes,  I  picked 
that  place  out  just  because  I  thought  of  how 
she  used  to  lean  against  the  trees  and  listen  to 
the  birds'  songs.  It  is  the  biggest  tree  in  the 
graveyard,  and  singing  birds,  doctor,  like  big 
trees — they  want  a  height  when  they  pitch  their 
voices.  I  planted  rose  trees,  but  they  died  for 
want  of  sun — the  big  beech  wpuld  have  no  other 
mate  in  guarding  Dory's  grave.  Years  after, 
when  in  Montreal,  I  bought  a  piece  of  marble, 
made  them  cut  on  it  '  Charley,'  and  put  it  at 
the  head  of  Dory's  grave.  People  thought  it 
was  strange,  so  may  you ;  but  that  matters  little. 
I  always  say  that  strange  things  are  only  strange 
to  those  who  don't  understand  them. 

"  That's  my    story.      That's    why    I    am  here, 


BUTTONS'  LOST  LOVE.  73 

brought  by  a  fading  memory.  Dory's  camp  is 
a  ruin,  and  I,  Billy  Buttons  —  but  no  use  in 
complaining;  life  is  rather  short  for  that.  Fill 
your  pipe,  doctor,  and  let  us  go;  that  rain-spit 
is  over. ' ' 

We  righted  the  boat  and  pulled  out.  The 
lake  was  calm,  the  ducks  had  returned,  the 
moss  was  arrayed  in  a  bridal  dress  of  slobber, 
a  robin  from  a  tall  pine  sang  us  a  parting 
song.  Out  of  Charley  Pond  and  down  the 
narrow  channel  glided  our  little  boat,  Buttons 
smoking  and  thinking  mighty  heavy,  the  country 
doctor  impatient  to  pen  an  old  guide's  story. 


74  THE   COMING    OF    SLITHERS. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    COMING    OF    SLITHERS. 

IT  was  after  a  lucky  bear-hunt  that  Professor 
Clark,  startled  by  the  wonderful  knowledge  of 
his  Adirondack  guides,  declared  that  "  the  nat- 
ural intelligence  of  Squidville's  children  should 
be  quickened  by  education.  To  show  you," 
continued  the  professor,  "  that  I  am  in  dead 
earnest  in  this  matter  I  will  donate  the  sum  of 
one  hundred  dollars, — yes,  one  hundred, — and 
that  at  once,  as  a  starter." 

Cagy  drank  in  the  professor's  words,  and  under 
the  pretext  of  "  Provisions  out,  sir,"  left  the 
camp  that  night  with  basket  and  rifle  for  the 
Hunter's  Paradise.  The  basket  was  to  be  filled 
with  canned  goods,  and  the  rifle  to  be  handy 
in  case  of  an  odd  shot. 

Cagy  communed  with  himself  on  the  way. 
He  had  often  heard  sportsmen  when  talking  of 
this  or  that  guide  say:  "  The  greatest  pity  in 
the  world  the  poor  fellow  can  neither  read  nor 
write." 

"  The  same,"   thought  Cagy,   "  would  be  said 


THE   COMING    OF    SLITHERS.  75 

of  the  rising  folk  if  they  didn't  get  a  chance." 
Now  was  the  time — he  would  see  Billy  Buttons, 
and  if  he  thought  it  was  right,  then  they  would 
lay  before  Weeks  what  Clark  had  said,  neither 
cutting  it  shorter  nor  making  it  longer. 

Cagy,  by  near  cuts  only  known  to  the  trained 
guide,  wa.;  soon  in  sight  of  Buttons'  log  cabin. 
The  little  Poulets  sat  in  front  of  the  door,  for 
William  had  captured  the  widow  and  her  brood. 

An  Adirondack  guide  is  long-winded  when  his 
subject  is  a  hunt.  Then  he  recognizes  that 
he  is  an  artist  and  must  carefully  produce  each 
shade  of  his  masterpiece.  On  other  subjects, 
and  especially  with  his  fellows,  he  bags  his  game 
with  the  first  shot.  Cagy  lost  no  words  with 
Buttons,  and  with  the  swarm  of  young  Poulets 
on  hand  Buttons  was  right  glad  to  second  the 
motion  that  "Jim  be  informed  of  the  offer  of 
the  finest  man  that  ever  struck  the  woods."  It 
was  but  a  step  to  Weeks',  and  the  two  old 
chums  made  it  a  lively  one. 

They  were  welcomed  by  Weeks'  giant  hand- 
shake and  hearty  voice:  "Boys,  what's  up? 
Something  worth  scratching  for,  I'll  warrant." 

To  Weeks'  question  Cagy  answered  by  cross- 
ing his  lips — a  mountain  sign  that  means,  "  Folks 
around  and  leakage  in  them." 


76  THE   COMING    OF   SLITHERS. 

Telling  his  boy-of-all-work,  Frank  La  Flamme, 
to  fill  Cagy's  basket,  he  invited  the  guides  to 
his  barn,  promising  them  something  worth  seeing 
- — the  best  colt  from  here  to  Snipeville.  Once 
in  secrecy,  Cagy's  message  was  quickly  laid  be- 
fore him,  with  Buttons'  often-repeated  comment 
that  "  A  school  would  be  the  making  of  Squid- 
ville  for  now  and  forever." 

"  Cagy,  you're  what  I  call  a  genuine  corker; 
you're  always  thinking  of  other  folks  —  one  of 
those  lads  that  sees  ahead.  I  have  no  family; 
I  had,  " — Buttons  and  Cagy  turned  their  heads, 
— "  but  I  am  for  the  good  of  Squidville  every 
time;  so  I'll  go  the  professor  a  hundred." 

'  Thank  you,  Jim  Weeks,"  said  Cagy,  "  and 
if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  keep  out  of  my 
monthly  check  ten  dollars,  just  to  keep  the 
ball  a-hopping,  I'll  be  more  than  obliged." 

There  was  a  tear  in  Buttons'  eye  as  he 
stammered  out:  "  Changed  times  with  Billy 
Buttons;  put  me  down  for  five." 

"  Is  marriage  a  failure,  Billy? "  said  Weeks, 
laying  his  finger-tips  kindly  on  Buttons'  shoulder. 

"  No,  Jim;  since  I  come  by  the  Poulets  I'm 
as  happy  as  a  lark,  but  when  a  fellow  has  so 
many  bills  pecking  at  what  he  brings  in — not 
that  I  begrudge  anything  to  my  wife  or  the 


THE   COMING    OF   SLITHERS.  77 

children  of  Tom  Poulet — he  cannot  be  as  free 
as  he  would  wish." 

"  Your  five  is  better  than  my  hundred,"  said 
Weeks;  "it  is  harder  for  you  to  spare  it." 

Cagy  scratched  his  head;  his  face  wore  a 
troubled  expression.  "  Jim  Weeks,"  said  he, 
"  take  another  five  from  my  wages  and  put  it 
along  with  Buttons'  as  an  evener;  what's  mine 
is  Billy's.  If  I  was  dying  to-morrow  I  would 
make  for  Billy's." 

"  My  house  is  yours,  and  the  latch-string  is 
out  for  you  by  day  and  night,  whenever  you're 
around,"  said  Buttons,  grasping  his  friend's  hand. 

"  I  know  it,  old  man,  I  know  it,"  said  Cagy. 
'*  You  and  Jim  will  see  to  things.  I  must  be 
making  for  the  camp." 

Next  day  at  the  dinner-hour  Billy  Buttons, 
accompanied  by  young  La  Flamme  lustily  ring- 
ing Jim  Weeks'  dinner-bell,  made  a  tour  of 
Squidville.  It  was  a  way  of  telling  folk  "  that 
something  was  a-coming  to  a  head."  On  his 
return  he  stopped  at  every  house  and  sang: 

"  To-night   or   never 
Lost    forever, 

A    school. 

Come   one,  come   all, 
To  Jim   Weeks1.      Oh,  oh,  oh!" 


78  THE   COMING    OF   SLITHERS. 

The  prolonged  "  Oh  !  "  was  musically  sup- 
ported by  the  timely  ringing  of  La  Flamme's 
bell.  Squidville  had  so  few  excitements  that 
fall  that  it  gladly  listened  to  William's  voice. 

There  is  no  appointed  hour  in  these  parts  to 
open  a  meeting.  It  is  our  way  to  begin  when 
the  hall  is  well  filled.  That  night  by  seven, 
a  decent  hour,  it  was  overflowing.  Jim  Weeks, 
amid  applause,  was  made  chairman.  He  excused 
himself  for  not  sitting,  preferring  to  lean  against 
a  cracker-barrel  the  better  to  study  their  faces. 
His  speech  was  allowed  on  all  hands  to  have 
been  a  rip-snorter.  He  stopped  at  nothing. 
He  cited  the  Bible,  and  what  some  big  city 
gun  had  told  him  in  confidence.  When  he  came 
to  say:  "  We  are  Americans;  Squidville  is  in  New 
York,  and  every  loon  knows  that  New  York  is 
in  America,  therefore  Squidville  folks  are  Ameri- 
cans, and  it  is  the  right  of  every  American  to 
have  an  education,"  the  audience  went  wild. 

"  I  wouldn't  miss  that  for  all  I'm  worth," 
was  the  ordinary  comment. 

Bill  Whistler,  just  as  the  meeting  was  going 
to  take  names  and  their  contributions,  asked 
privilege  to  say  a  few  words.  It  was  granted. 
"  Fellow-taxpayers,"  said  he,  "  our  burdens 
are — " 


THE   COMING    OF    SLITHERS.  79 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  a  craning 
of  necks. 

"  I  move  that  Whistler  turns  off  his  gas," 
said  Buttons. 

"  Second   the   motion,"    said    La   Jeunesse. 

"  He's  not  in    it  with  you,    Jim,"   said  Berry. 

"  He's   talking   through    his   hat,"   said    Brie. 

"  I'll  ring  the  changes  on  him,"  said  La 
Flamme,  vigorously  shaking  his  bell. 

"  This  is  coming  to  be  a  pandimion,  and  you 
know  what  Gliggins  said  about  pandimions, " 
shouted  a  female  voice  from  the  crowd. 

"  Boys  !  "  shouted  Weeks,  "  here's  the  point: 
will  we  let  our  young  folks  grow  up  like  a  lot 
of  woodchucks,  just  know  enough  to  carry  them 
around,  for  the  sake  of  a  few  miserable  dollars 
in  the  way  of  taxes?  or  will  we  make  men  of 
them,  and  put  some  of  them  on  the  road  to 
be  senators?  Just  think  of  it,  boys — me  calling 
one  of  the  youngsters  Senator  Whistler,  Senator 
Poulet;  that's  the  way,  as  Jenks  used  to  say, 
'  to  cast  your  optics  on  a  thing.'  ' 

Weeks  had  conquered.  Bill  Whistler  yielded 
to  his  spell.  "  Ay,"  said  he,  "  true;  I  should 
have  looked  at  it  by  Jim's  way.  My  Johnny 
or  Zebediah  might  be  senators,  exactly.  I  am 
a  great  man  for  discussion.  Last  week's  Pioneer 


8o 

said :  '  Let  there  be  discussion ;  everything  above- 
board;  the  man  that  provokes  discussion  is  a 
benefactor.'  Now,  boys,  you'll  have  to  give  me 
credit  for  getting  that  last  corker  of  an  argu- 
ment out  of  Jim." 

The  meeting  was  a  great  success.  Enough 
money  was  contributed  to  build  a  district  school 
and  keep  it  in  fuel  for  two  winters.  Weeks 
gave  the  building-lot,  and  became  the  first 
trustee.  It  was  a  new  and  strange  duty,  but 
he  was  not  the  man  to  flinch  from  a  trust. 
A  few  weeks  later  the  first  page  of  the  Por- 
cupine Pioneer  contained  the  following  notice: 

"  HUNTER'S  PARADISE. 
"Best  Summer  Board  in  the  Adirondack. 

"  To  all  whom  it  may  concern :  I,  James  Weeks, 
being  duly  appointed  trustee  of  Squidville  school  by  a 
meeting  of  taxpayers  called  for  that  purpose,  do  hereby 
notify  teachers  that  I  am  on  the  lookout  for  one  of 
them,  provided  the  same  comes  up  to  my  notion  of 
what  is  wanted.  Petitioners  must  be  gentlemen,  Chris- 
tians, and  scholars.  No  bad  habits.  Must  have  a 
good  '  commend '  from  former  boss. 

"  Notay  Bainaz. 

"All  Petitioners  must  bring  their  characters  along 
with  them." 

This  advertisement  was  handsomely  supported 
by  an  editorial  pointedly  headed,  "To  Be  or 


THE   COMING   OF   SLITHERS.  8l 

Not  to  Be:  That's  the  Question."  In  this 
editorial  were  shown  the  labors  of  Weeks  in  be- 
half of  education,  and  an  advice  to  its  readers 
—  that  the  right  man  would  be  well  treated. 
This  appeal  was  answered  in  person  by  a  man  of 
thirty,  tall  and  slim,  bulging  forehead,  cat-eyes 
steel-gray,  pointed  nose,  thin  lips,  and  retreating 
chin.  His  voice,  as  Sal  Purdy  said,  was  the 
only  thing  pretty  about  him.  That,  she  declared, 
was  "  as  sweet  as  syrup."  He  wore  a  black 
suit  of  ministerial  cut,  kid  gloves,  beaver  hat, 
a  little  shiny  and  tilted  to  one  side.  His 
right  hand  held  an  umbrella  much  the  worse  for 
wear.  He  carried  a  little  satchel  in  his  left 
hand,  containing  his  "  recommends."  As  he 
came  by  the  stage,  it  gave  Squidville  a  chance 
of  seeing  him.  .Every  house  was  crowded  with 
eager  faces  to  get  a  peep  at  the  man  of  learn- 
ing. It  was  the  general  say  that  he  was  some- 
thing out  of  the  run,  and  the  hope  was  expressed 
that  Weeks  would  see  his  way  "  to  let  him 
have  the  school."  Berry  had  taken  an  interest 
in  the  stranger.  As  the  stage  halted  in  front 
of  the  Hunter's  Paradise  he  grasped  the  pro- 
fessor's hand,  warning  him  that  the  prettiest 
way  to  come  at  Jim  was  to  keep  his  tongue 
from  wabbling  and  allow  Jim  to  do  the  talking. 


82  THE   COMING    OF    SLITHERS. 

The  stranger  thanked  the  stage-driver  for  his 
sage  advice,  and,  taking  his  belongings,  waited 
on  Squidville's  trustee.  Buttons  gave  the  pro- 
fessor the  only  arm-chair.  La  Flamme  ran  to 
tell  his  master  that  "  one  of  the  city  folk  was 
come." 

"How  do?  Just  got  here?"  was  Weeks' 
salutation. 

The  professor  rose,  put  his  umbrella  on  the 
counter,  his  bag  on  the  chair,  pulled  from  his 
vest-pocket  his  eyeglasses,  wiped  them  with  a 
faded  handkerchief  extracted  from  his  coat-tail 
pocket,  and  calmly  placed  them  on  his  nose. 

A  profound  impression  sat  on   Buttons'    face. 

"  My  health,  sir  !  "  said  the  man  of  learning, 
"is  of  the  best — at  its  acme,  if  I  may  say  so. 
I  am  in  splendid  form  for  a  scholar.  I  have 
got  rid  of  waste  tissue,  that  clog  of  all  true 
scholars.  And  here  I  may  state  that,  reading  in 
the  Porcupine  your  most  healthy  epistle  to  the 
teaching  brethren,  I  bethought  of  offering  my 
services  as  preceptor — magtster,  as  we  say  in  the 
Latin  tongue — to  an  institution  that  shall  per- 
petuate your  name  and  fame,  not  only  to  the 
rising  generations,  but,  as  a  scholar  would  put 
it,  per  omnia  s&cula  sceculorum." 


THE   COMING   OF   SLITHERS.  83 

The  final  sentence  was  too  much  for  Buttons. 
Jumping  from  his  seat,  he  exclaimed:  "  Pro- 
fessor, you're  a  whole  luminary  in  yourself. 
Why,  Jim,  that's  mighty  powerful  speaking.  If 
only  the  Poulets  knew  how  to  speak  that  last 
language  I  would  die  like  a  seigneur.  Pere 
Monnier's  the  only  man  I  ever  heard  speaking 
those  same  words,  and  the  only  difference  is 
that  he  uses  his  hands  more." 

4<  The  Poulets  may  learn  it  if  I  am  retained," 
said  the  stranger.  "  My  ambition  will  be  to 
train  a  race  of  Americans  that  shall  love  their 
God  and  their  country,  and  willingly  die  for 
both;  men  " — and  the  professor  waxed  warm — 
"  whose  brave  hearts  shall  throb  to  the  siren 
strings  of  humanity."  Here  he  remembered 
Berry's  advice,  removed  his  bag,  and  meekly 
sat  down. 

"  Show   me   your   commends,"    said   Weeks. 

A  smile  played  on  Buttons'  face  as  he  said: 
"I'll  warrant  he's  chock-full  of  them." 

"  Quality,  William  Buttons,  not  quantity, 
counts,"  said  Weeks. 

"  That  is  most  excellently  put,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor; "  a  magnificent  example  of  conciseness." 

The    little    bag   was    quietly    opened,    and    a 


84  THE   COMING    OF    SLITHERS. 

huge  bundle  of  papers,  faded  and  fresh  leaves, 
neatly  spread  on  the  counter. 

"  These,"  said  the  smiling  stranger,  "  are  but 
a  few." 

"  My  heavens  !  "  said  Buttons,  "  only  a  few; 
if  you  have  any  more  you  have  the  longest 
character  of  any  man  of  my  acquaintance." 

Weeks  patiently  read  letter  after  letter — at 
least  he  spent  some  time  on  every  sheet.  An 
old  yellow  leaf,  roughly  scrawled,  held  him. 
"  Listen,  Billy  !  On  account  of  this  commend 
I  give  the  care  of  Squidville  school,  at  eight 
dollars  per  week, — am  I  understood  pertinently 
and  distinctly? — to  Corkey  Slithers,  here  present, 
to  have  and  to  hold  for  the  natural  term  of 
one  year." 

Corkey  rose,  bowed,  saying:  "  Mr.  Trustee, 
you  are,  sir,  distinctly,  pertinently  understood, 
and  your  offer  accepted,  by  Corkey  Slithers." 
Buttons  shook  the  professor's  hand. 

Weeks  read  in  a  loud,  stumbling  voice  from 
the  yellow  leaf : 

"  CORKEY  SLITHERS,  Esq., 

well  known  to  me,  who  knew  him  since  he  wasn't 
the  hight  of  your  nee,  asks  for  a  commend,  and  I  give 
it  this  very  minit.  Corkey  is  an  Americin,  true  blew 
at  that,  who  belives  that  the  poorest  should  have  an 


THE   COMING    OF   SLITHERS.  85 

edukashun  cqal  to  the  rich.     He's  a  worker  from  away 
back,  a  man  of  the  people. 
"  Yours, 

"  MR.  TATTERS  MCGARVEY, 

"  Constitution  House,  Snipcvillc" 

"  That's  an  honest  letter,"  said  Weeks,  care- 
fully folding  it;  "  none  of  your  nonsense  about 
Tatters." 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  professor;  "  he  over- 
spells  in  some  places,  but  it  was  not  for  its 
spelling,  but  for  its  honesty,  that  I  laid  it  be- 
fore you,  Mr.  Trustee." 

"  It's  hard,  Mr.  Slithers,"  said  Weeks,  "  for 
an  old  dog  to  learn  new  tricks.  When  we 
were  young,  Tatters  and  I,  there  were  neither 
schools  nor  school-masters.  What  we  have  in 
our  skulls  is  but  pickin's  gathered  here  and 
there.  We  know  our  want,  and  don't  wish 
the  children  to  be  like  us  in  that  respect.  In 
honesty  and  kindness  we  have  no  masters.  You 
have  had  a  long,  rough  ride,  professor,  and 
must  be  hungry.  It's  dinner-time.  Ring  the 
bell,  Frankie;  come  along  with  us,  Buttons,  and 
make  no  excuses." 

"  Well,  by  jingo,  that's  as  tidy  as  my  boat," 
said  Buttons  as  La  Jeunesse  drove  the  last 
nail  in  the  saddle-boards  of  Squidville's  school. 


86  THE    COMING    OF    SLITHERS. 

A  crowd  had  gathered  "  to  see  her  finished, 
done  up  in  good  style." 

To  William's  outburst  came  their  contented 
cry,  "  Yes,  by  jingo,  she's  all  you  say,  and 
more." 

La  Jeunesse  ran  down  the  ladder  like  a  cat; 
Weeks  threw  up  his  hat;  the  professor  took  a 
side-squint  at  his  academy;  Frankie  rang  the 
bell;  and  Cagy's  fellow-guides,  from  Snipeville 
and  Porcupine  Creek,  sang: 

"We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
We  won't  go  home  till  morning — 
Till  daylight  does  appear." 

Seeing  folk  make  so  merry,  a  bright  idea 
came  to  Weeks.  Running  to  the  Hunter's  Para- 
dise, astonishing  everybody  by  his  agility,  he 
wrote  a  notice,  and,  coming  as  quickly  as  he 
had  gone,  nailed  it  to  the  door.  It  read: 

"At  7  P.M.  sharp  a  meeting  of  praise  and  thanks 
will  be  held  in  this  school-house.  All  invited.  Bring 
chairs;  benches  put  in  next  week.  First  appearance 
of  Professor  Slithers  in  his  capacity  of  Principal. 
Friends  of  education  turn  out,  and  show  the  people 
of  the  surrounding  towns  that  you  are  no  back-sliders. 
Astonish  Mr.  Corkey  by  what  the  Pioneer  calls  '  our 
exuberance.'  A  fee  of  ten  cents  at  the  door,  to  buy 


THE   COMING   OF   SLITHERS.  87 

books  for  the  orphans.     Long  live  Squidville,  and  hip, 
hurrah,  boys,  for  Corkey  Slithers! 

"JiM  WEEKS,  Trustee." 

Milly  De  La  Rosa,  a  pretty  miss  of  seven- 
teen, was  called  on  by  the  happy  crowd  to 
"  cipher  out  what  Jim  Weeks  was  up  to." 
Milly  was  the  village  pet. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Buttons  in  a  fatherly 
way,  "  Milly;  you're  ciphering  it  out  first  rate." 

"Loud,  black-eyes!"  said  Weeks,  "or  I'll 
make  Frankie  stay  in  the  store  to-night."  Milly 
blushed. 

"  Go  on,  child,"  said  the  delighted  Cagy; 
"  it's  astonishing  how  you  get  around  Weeks' 
lingo.  You're  as  smart  as  a  steel  trap,  and 
Corkey  will  polish  you  off  like  a  diamond." 

"  That's  all,"  said  Milly,  with  a  saucy  shake 
of  the  head. 

"Bravo!"  shouted  the  crowd.  "Untutored 
children,"  said  the  professor;  "  what  a  rich  soil 
to  sow  in  the  immortal  seeds  of  education  ! " 

"  You  struck  bottom  that  time,"  said  But- 
tons; "  it's  in  them  every  time  for  the  taking 
out.  They're  as  quick  as  chain-lightning." 

"Naked  truth,  Buttons,"  said  Whistler:  "just 
the  stuff  to  make  your  senators." 

"  You    bet,"   says   Berry,   "  and  they  wouldn't 


88  THE   COMING    OF   SLITHERS. 

blather  away  in  Washington  and  let  the  country 
go  to  shocks." 

Frankie  rang  his  bell.  Weeks  and  the  pro- 
fessor started  for  the  Hunter's  Paradise,  followed 
by  the  crowd  singing. 

At  seven  the  school-house  was  filled,  and 
Chairman  Weeks  had  called  the  meeting  to 
order.  His  remarks,  as  I  find  them  in  the 
Pioneer,  were  that  Education  makes  the  man, 
the  want  of  it  the  fellow;  that  he  felt  its  loss 
in  every  step  of  life.  That  the  best  thing  a 
man  could  do  for  his  country  was  to  help  to  edu- 
cate his  fellow-men.  For  this  reason  the  orphan 
lad  that  he  had  brought  up  as  his  own  child, 
the  son  of  poor  Napoleon  La  Flamme,  would 
be  placed  under  the  care  of  his  friend  Professor 
Slithers,  and  he  hoped  that  all  parents  and 
guardians  of  children  would  follow  his  example. 

The  speech  of  Professor  Slithers  I  take  from 
the  same  journal: 

"  Libertas  et  natale  solum,  as  we  say  in  the 
Latin  tongue.  Friends,  that  is  a  sentiment  to 
be  profoundly  cherished.  How  shall  we  cherish 
it  ?  By  giving  our  sons  and  daughters,  in  the 
words  of  our  distinguished  chairman,  an  educa- 
tion." 

Here  there  is  a  break,   as  there  was  not   space 


THE    COMING    OF   SLITHERS.  89 

in  the  first  page  of  the  Pioneer  to  insert  the 
whole  speech.  In  the  advertising  part  of  the 
same  paper  you  will  find  the  wind-up,  which 
took  Squidville  by  storm.  I  copy  it: 

"  Education  is  liberty.  Liberty  shall  never 
die.  Slavery  is  Carthage;  and  as  the  Latins 
say,  Delenda  est  Carthago.  When  the  rotten 
governments  of  Europe  are  sunk  in  the  ocean, 
when  not  a  vestige  of  the  earth  shall  remain, 
Liberty,  as  represented  by  our  Eagle,  shall  on 
the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  Rockies  stand,  spread 
her  tail-feathers,  kick  out  her  hind  leg  in  de- 
rision, and  say  Boo  !  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 
These,  O  men  of  Squidville  !  be  the  undying 
sentiments  of  Slithers." 

"Such  sentiments  won  him  the  heart  of  Squid- 
ville town,  and  the  promise  by  the  morrow  of 
seventy  "  regular  scholars."  No  wonder  that 
Weeks  said:  "  Professor  Clark,  may  heaven  be 
your  bed,  for  what  you  have  done  for  us  !  " 
And  Jemmie  Barbier,  the  village  patriarch  and 
guardian  of  Milly  De  La  Rosa:  "  It's  hard  for 
my  old  wife  to  spare  Milly,  but  we  must  make 
a  little  sacrifice  in  this  world,  and  to  what  you 
say,  Jim  Weeks,  I  say  Amen,  and  add,  May 
heaven  be  your  bed  !  " 


90  THE    WOOING    OF   MILLT. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    WOOING    OF  MILLY. 

THE  election  was  over;  the  party  of  Pink 
had  won,  congratulations  were  hearty.  '  The 
people's  will  had  triumphed.  Popular  govern- 
ment had  been  vindicated,"  said  the  solitary 
leader  in  the  Porcupine  Pioneer,  hemmed  in  be- 
tween a  crowing  rooster  and  Old  Glory. 

Bill  Whistler  had  other  ideas,  standing  on 
Weeks'  piazza  and  looking  at  the  half-drunken 
voters  with  right  hands  in  their  trousers  pockets 
firmly  clutching  the  two-dollar  bills,  "  the  or- 
dinary price  of  votes  in  these  parts,"  he  was 
heard  to  remark;  "  the  people's  will  and  popular 
government  are  catchwords  that  mean  noth- 
ing. The  drunken  fellows  don't  know  what  they 
are  voting  for.  You  have  filled  them  with 
whiskey,  put  their  price  in  their  hands,  told  them 
to  vote;  they  have  done  so,  and  now  you  have 
the  hardihood  to  call  this  the  people's  will, 
popular  government." 


THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY.  9! 

"  Bill,"  said  Berry,  whose  stage  had  carried 
the  colors  of  Punk,  "  no  use  in  talking.  Pink 
had  the  most  money  and  the  most  whiskey; 
that's  what  sweeps  the  stakes." 

"  We  ain't  to  blame,"  said  a  staggering  voter; 
"  it's  the  Church-folk — the  best  pickings  at  that, 
these  temperance  fellows — who  sent  us  the  whis- 
key." 

"  Strange  thing,"  said  Ike  Perkins,  "  that  they 
preach  temperance  every  day  in  the  year  but 
election-day.  About  their  whole  concern  on 
that  day  is  to  make  drunkards." 

"  That's  a  fact,  Ike.  Yet  the  election  of  Pink 
is,  according  to  the  Pioneer ',  the  people's  will, 
vindication  of  popular  government,"  was  Whis- 
tUr's  last  shot  at  the  triumphant  party  approach- 
ing the  Hunter's  Paradise.  Pink,  smiling,  shak- 
ing hands  with  every  man  he  met,  telling  jokes 
of  Squidville  prepared  for  the  day,  was  escorted 
to  the  private  room  and  closeted  with  Jim 
Weeks. 

The  outcome  of  this  secret  meeting  was  that 
Squidville  was  to  have  a  post-office  with  full 
connections  with  Snipeville.  Weeks  was  ever 
mindful  of  his  friends. 

On  Pink's  memorandum- book,  slated  for 
Squidville's  first  post-master,  was  the  name  of 


92  THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY, 

William  Buttons.  "  He  has  married  into  a 
houseful  of  Poulets,  is  getting  old,  and  for  what 
he  was  deserves  the  office.  With  Buttons  as 
post-master,  and  Cagy  running  the  Snipeville 
stage,  the  mail  is  bound  to  get  there,"  was 
Weeks'  exultant  word. 

Pink  closed  his  memorandum-book,  and  in  a 
knowing  way  pressed  Weeks'  hand.  Teams 
were  in  readiness;  Pink's  party  drove  forth  amid 
yells  and  human  imitations  of  cock-crowing. 
Whistler  sauntered  home  with  a  showy  con- 
tempt for  the  drunken  men  that  had  betrayed 
their  party.  Little  groups  lingered  in  the  Hunt- 
er's Paradise  telling  of  the  things  that  had 
happened  until  Weeks,  tired  of  his  day's  work, 
shouted,  "  Time  to  close;  all  home;  your  wives 
will  think  that  you're  lost." 

With  a  "  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that, 
Jim,"  the  merry  groups  went  home.  Night 
fell  on  the  mountain  town.  La  Flamme's  dogs 
warned  a  yelping  fox  to  retreat. 

Billy  Buttons  said  to  his  wife,  "  There's 
music  in  Squidville  to-night."  4<  There  may  be 
more  by  the  morrow,"  was  the  sleepy  reply. 

It  was  so.  He  was  sleeping,  dreaming  of 
deer  and  Charley  Pond,  when  his  door  was 
pounded  to  the  tune  of  ringing  laughter.  He 


THE    WOOING   OF    MILLY.  93 

arose,  hurriedly  dressed,  and  opening  the  door 
found  himself  in  the  arms  of  Jim  Weeks. 

While  Bill  Whistler  congratulated  him  on  be- 
ing post-master  from  that  very  minute,  with 
power  to  name  the  man  who  should  carry  the 
mail  between  his  town  and  Snipeville,  Buttons, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  "  became,"  as  Cagy 
remarked,  "  so  rattled  that  he  couldn't  draw  a 
tricker."  It  passed.  He  was  no  speech-maker, 
but  like  all  guides  in  a  moment  when  dumb- 
ness might  mean  ingratitude  his  tongue  was 
thawed. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  you  are  all  corkers.  I 
wish  I  was  Slithers,  to  tell  you  all  I  feel.  To 
be  the  first  post-master  of  Squidville  is  no  small 
honor;  I  know  that,  and  my  only  thought  will 
be  to  please  you.  I'm  no  scholar;  but  my 
stepson  Poulet  —  I'm  only  saying  what  Slithers 
says — can  read  anything  on  paper.  I'll  do  my 
best,  boys,  and  you'll  all  help  me." 

"  You  ought  to  be  pretty  certain  of  that, 
Billy,"  was  their  joint  reply. 

"  Boys,  I  have  known  it  for  thirty  years," 
was  his  answer. 

"  Post-master  Buttons,  who  will  run  the  Snipe- 
ville stage  ? "  said  Weeks  in  a  bantering  way. 

"  I  don't  want   to  be  too  bossy  at    first,   Jim; 


94  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

but  if  you  left  it  to  me  Cagy,  the  best  fellow 
in  the  world,  should  have  it,"  said  Buttons. 

"Struck  the  mark  !"  said  Weeks.  "  Heavens, 
what  a  team  they'll  make  !  "  said  Andrieux. 
"  Cagy's  fixed  for  life!"  said  Whistler.  "What 
a  pair  of  steppers!"  shouted  Brie.  "They're 
as  good  as  they  make  them,"  said  Berry.  Cagy 
clasped  Buttons'  hand,  while  the  well-wishers  went 
to  their  daily  employment. 

Mrs.  Buttons  was  right.  "  There  was  more 
music  in  the  morning."  The  young  Poulets, 
carried  away  by  the  importance  that  had  come 
to  stay  in  their  family,  opened  their  throats  and 
sent  forth  a  volume  of  sound,  making  Professor 
Slithers  remark,  "Menagerie  on  fire?" 

The  remainder  of  the  day  was  spent  by  the 
two  old  guides  looking  for  a  suitable  building 
to  carry  on  "the  lettering  business."  Towards 
evening  a  bargain  was  had  of  a  frame  house 
on  the  banks  of  the  Salmon  River,  largely  dilapi- 
dated, but,  as  Cagy  remarked,  "  easy  to  right." 
It  was  considered  spacious,  a  point  of  note  in 
a  country  post-office. 

"  I'll  put  up  my  stand  here,"  said  Buttons, 
lounging  in  a  corner  of  the  house.  "  I'll  have 
a  desk,  a  few  forms  for  the  boys  to  sit  on." 

"  It   would    be   a   first-class    idea   to    put    the 


TH«   WOOING    OF   MILLY.  95 

box-stove  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,"  said 
Cagy;  "  it  would  give  the  boys  more  room  to 
kick." 

"  Right  you  are,  Cagy;  I'll  have  no  cooping 
business  in  my  office." 

"  I  have  a  thought,  Billy,  that  you  ought 
to  square  off  the  other  corner  for  a  store." 

"  That  same  idea,  Cagy,  is  hatching  in  my 
skull.  Folks,  when  they  come  for  letters,  will 
be  willing  to  take  home  a  few  groceries  under 
their  arm.  A  post-office  is  no  great  shakes  as 
a  money-maker.  It's  only  as  a  feeder  to  a  store 
that  it  counts." 

"  One  thing,  Billy,  you  must  not  forget,  and 
that's  to  gouge  a  good  hole  in  the  door,  for 
polite  folk  who  won't  come  in  to  pass  through 
their  mail." 

"  It's  a  mighty  queer  way  for  folk,"  said 
Buttons,  "  even  if  they  are  on  the  ups,  to  think 
that  a  post- master  has  nothing  else  to  do  but 
stand  behind  a  door  waiting  to  see  a  letter  shoot 
through." 

"  You're  shooting  high,  Billy.  My  meaning 
is,  after  you  gouge  the  hole,  to  put  a  box 
behind  it,  what  Mr.  Corkey  would  call  a  re- 
ceiver. There's  no  need  then  to  be  standing 
behind  the  door.  Go  about  your  business.  As 


96  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

soon  as  the  letter  is  sent  scooting  it  will  take 
a  drop,  and  be  there  until  you  pick  it  up." 

"  Why,  Cagy,"  said  the  delighted  Buttons, 
"  that's  as  clear  as  spring- water  with  a  sandy 
bottom.  A  fellow  in  my  business  has  to  put 
up  with  all  kinds  of  folk.  I'll  follow  your 
plan,  though,  there's  no  mistake  about  it,  in  a 
free  country  like  this  I  think  everybody  should 
come  right  up  to  the  counter  and  do  their  busi- 
ness open." 

"  Free  country,  Billy,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  It's  all  nature,  and  she's  a  lassie  pretty 
hard  to  twist.  You  cannot  make  woodchucks 
run  like  foxes,  or  ducks  trot  like  hens.  Take 
folks  as  they  be  and  hold  your  reins  accord- 
ingly." 

"  It's  a  fact,  Cagy.  It's  time  to  go.  Pull 
the  door  after  you;  as  soon  as  I  am  rigged 
I'll  have  to  put  a  lock  on  the  door.  It  seems 
all  so  funny,  these  new  lifts  in  life,  don't  it, 
Cagy? — so  funny  to  leave  the  woods  and  all  our 
bearings.  With  the  help  of  God  I  won't  part 
with  my  gun  and  dog.  I'll  have  a  whack  at 
the  deer  this  fall." 

"  Billy,"  said  Cagy  mournfully,  "if  we  are 
going  into  the  government  business  it  doesn't 
mean  that  we  are  going  to  give  up  our  liberty. 


THE   WOOING    OF    M1LLY.  97 

By  deer-time  the  Poulets  will  be  able  to  run 
the  office  tip-top,  and  Brie  can  take  my  place, 
so  we'll  be  able  to  do  the  right  thing  by  the 
deer.  Anyway,  it  wouldn't  make  much  fuss  if 
the  letters  were  three  or  four  weeks  later;  news 
don't  spoil." 

Two  old  guides  went  laughing  down  Pleasant 
View.  Three  months  passed  before  the  neces- 
sary papers  came  from  Washington.  When  they 
came  it  was  known  to  Squidville.  Berry  an- 
nourK  .  i  the  news  from  his  passing  stage.  "  Boys, 
hurrah  !  the  senator's  made  Buttons  a  post-master 
without  a  whimper.  I  have  all  the  papers." 
He  had.  They  were  addressed  to  Jim  Weeks. 

A  crowd  gathered  at  the  Hunter's  Paradise  to 
hear  the  "  latest."  Weeks,  opening  the  bulky 
envelope,  from  the  piazza  addressed  them:  "  This 
is  a  bright  day  for  us.  We're  in  it  with  the 
rest  of  the  country.  We  have  churches,  school, 
and  now,  to  crown  everything,  a  post-office. 
Your  loves  and  sorrows  will  be  attended  to 
now.  The  half  of  you  can  sell  your  horses, 
seeing  business  is  so  easy.  Give  your  letters 
to  friend  Buttons;  he'll  see  that  they  make  a 
good  start.  You  have  only  to  write.  Buttons, 
as  soon  as  he  is  able,  will  sell  everything  in 
his  line.  Show  your  spunk  by  writing  to  all 


98  THE   WOOING   OF   MILLY. 

your  friends,  and  help  Billy.  He's  only  allowed 
what  stamps  he  crosses.  Give  him  enough. 
You'll  find  him  in  at  eight  to-morrow;  give 
him  a  call." 

This  speech  of  Jim's  was  received  with  cheers. 
It  was  the  general  say  that  a  stiff  business  in 
letter-writing  would  be  done  that  day.  To  the 
honor  of  local  patriotism  be  it  written  that 
men  and  women  hunted  up  lost  uncles  and  dis- 
tant cousins  in  order  to  show  their  appreciation 
of  William  Buttons.  Professor  Slithers  gave 
half  a  day  to  his  scholars  in  order  to  direct 
the  huge  bundle  of  letters  for  the  morning's 
mail.  Cagy  busied  himself  with  the  rigging  of 
the  Snipeville  stage.  It  was  to  start  at  nine, 
returning  the  next  evening  at  three,  meeting 
Berry  at  Squidville;  transferring  passengers  there 
for  Porcupine  Creek,  Mud  Pond,  Duck  Lake, 
Otter  Bend,  and  all  points  south.  Snipeville 
was  to  give  a  supper.  Tatters  McGarvey,  Esq., 
was  to  make  a  speech  and  Cagy  was  down  to 
reply.  It  was  the  trial  of  his  life.  As  he 
rigged  his  stage  he  made  his  speech,  violently 
shaking  the  wheels  when  he  scored  a  point, 
surlily  scratching  his  head  when  he  missed  the 
mark. 

Not  since  the  days  when  the  doctor  announced 


THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY.  99 

the  flight  of  Hiram  Jones  was  there  such  a 
•  nimotion  in  Squidville.  "  It  is,"  said  Bill 
Whistler,  "  my  idea  of  a  popular  demonstra- 
tion." 

Commotion,  like  a  dry-bough  fire,  soon  sub- 
sides. People  are  limited  on  every  subject. 
After  Weeks'  speech  had  been  viewed  from 
every  point  bed  was  refreshing.  Tongues  tire, 
eyes  shut  of  their  own  accord,  and  heads  be- 
come heavy.  Sleep,  whispering  of  the  great 
things  of  the  morrow,  tickled  the  Squidvillites. 
They  bent  to  her  sway.  La  Flamme's  dogs  kept 
watch.  Afar  away  a  fox  now  and  then  sent 
them  a  note  of  defiance.  A  deer  under  the 
cover  of  night  crossed  the  river.  A  catamount 
hufig  on  the  edge  of  the  mountain.  The  dogs 
laughed  at  such  insolence:  they,  too,  were 
dreaming  of  the  morrow.  Squidville  slept.  It 
is  easy  to  tell  when  a  mountain  town  awakes. 
A  slight  thread  of  smoke  peeps  from  a  chimney, 
curling  itself  into  light  gray  rings,  dying  in 
the  arms  of  the  cool  mountain  breeze.  Other 
chimneys  follow,  doors  creak  on  rusty  hinges, 
pent-up  dogs  salute  their  fellows,  cows  bellow, 
calves  become  frisky,  and  folks  are  busy  doing 
"  chores." 

"  What  a  life  !  "  says  the  sallow,  thin-blooded 


100  THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY. 

sportsman  as  he  turns  in  his  bed,  pulls  the 
chair  near  that  holds  his  vest,  extracts  his  watch 
just  marking  five.  He  turns  on  the  other  side, 
smiles  at  his  fellows,  hears  the  jingle  of  gold 
in  the  dropped  vest,  consoles  himself,  and  goes 
to  sleep. 

44  What  a  scarecrow  that  sport  is  !  "  says  the 
guide  later. 

"  As  sallow  as  a  duck's  foot;  a  few  crooked 
bones  rolled  in  parchment,  and  making  a  poor 
parcel  at  that.  He's  as  full  of  disease  as  an 
egg's  full  of  meat,"  says  another,  "  and  as 
shrivelled  as  a  beech  leaf  out  all  winter." 

44  He's  bound  to  snap.  There's  no  sap  in 
him,"  says  a  third. 

44  I  wouldn't  be  in  his  boots  for  all  the 
money  in  the  world,"  says  a  fourth. 

It's  our  way  to  criticise  each  other.  Happi- 
ness is  many-sided.  It  is  consoling  to  have  such 
a  word  in  the  dictionary  as  opinion. 

Buttons'  chimney  led  Squidville  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  closely  followed  by  Weeks'.  "  I'm 
going  over  to  Jim's  for  instructions,"  was  Buttons' 
parting  words  to  his  wife.  Early  as  it  was  the 
Hunter's  Paradise  was  open,  and  young  La 
Flamme  so  intent  on  writing  that  Buttons  had 
to  slap  him  on  the  shoulders  to  make  him  aware 


THE    WOOING    OF    MILLV.  1OI 

of  his  presence.  "  Hello,  Billy  !  ain't  you  early 
up?  "  was  his  word.  "  Not  a  bit  more  than  you 
be,"  was  Buttons'  retort. 

"Do   you   open   your  office   at  eight,    Billy?" 
' '  Well,  yes,   Frank,  that  is  the  intention  —  to 
have    the    mail    made    up    for   Cagy    to   have    a 
good  start." 

44  It's  rather  early,  Billy.  There's  no  sense  in 
shutting  up  at  three  and  opening  at  eight.  The 
time  between  is  just  when  a  fellow  has  a  chance 
to  skip  out  and  post  his  letter." 

44  Young  man,"  said  Buttons  with  an  air  of 
authority,  "  government  business  is  not  like  run- 
ning a  hotel:  it  has  its  hours.  You're  at  every- 
body's hour.  I'm  a  government  servant.  As 
fo  your  talk  about  shutting  up,  it  shows  how 
little  you  know  about  government  business. 
There  is  no  shut  up,  no  such  thing  as  a  still 
post-office.  I  have  put  in  a  receiver;  if  I'm 
out  he's  in." 

"A  receiver,  Billy!  Who  is  he?" 
44  There  you  are  again,  youngster;  you  have 
been  to  Slithers'  school  for  a  year,  and  you 
don't  know  what  a  receiver  is.  It  doesn't  argue 
for  a  long  head.  In  the  door  I've  gouged  a 
hole  big  enough  for  a  decent-sized  envelope  to 
slide  through.  Push  it  until  it  takes  a  drop. 


102  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

Of  course  it  is  only  for  gentle  folk;  but  I  sup- 
pose you're  like  all  the  youngsters:  you'll  be 
cock  of  the  roost  or  nothing." 

"  Good-morning,  post-master  !"  said  the  hearty 
Weeks,  opening  a  side  door.  "  Go  to  your 
breakfast,  Frankie." 

The  boy's  face  lighted  up;  bounding  from  the 
store,  he  followed  a  path  that  soon  brought  him, 
unnoticed,  to  the  post-office.  The  gouged  hole 
made  him  dance  with  delight. 

"  Buttons  never  picked  that  out  of  his  own 
head,"  he  shouted.  "  Just  the  thing.  I  can 
write  to  Milly,  and  no  one  will  be  the  wiser." 
His  heart  beat  faster:  his  heart  was  wound  up 
in  that  delicious  name.  '  I  don't  see  why 
Jemmie  Barbier  went  to  Snipeville  to  live.  Milly 
didn't  like  it  a  bit.  I  can't  bear  that  Slithers. 
He  thought,  because  he  was  her  teacher,  that 
he  would  cut  me  out.  He  can  write  better 
than  me,  has  more  in  his  head  to  work  on;  but 
if  she  likes  me  the  best  she  won't  pay  much 
attention  to  the  writing;  it's  what's  in  it  that 
counts.  Cagy  will  work  for  me.  She'll  visit  my 
mother  and  make  friends  with  Jenny.  They'll 
work  for  me.  Everybody  is  on  my  side.  Any- 
how, I  don't  see  how  she  can  like  that  horrid 
Corkey." 


THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY.  lOJ 

These  broken  mutterings  were  consoling.  La 
Flamme  put  his  letter  in  the  receiver,  laughed 
at  its  pleasant  dropping  sound,  and,  taking  the 
same  path,  gleefully  ran  to  the  Hunter's  Para- 
dise. A  few  hours  after  the  post-office  was 
opened  for  business,  the  Snipeville  stage  before 
the  door,  and  a  brisk  business  for  Buttons.  The 
people  had  shown  their  spunk.  A  late  caller 
was  Professor  Slithers,  who  had  left  his  school 
in  charge  of  the  largest  girl.  His  thoughts  were 
of  Milly  De  La  Rosa. 

"  How  romantic  her  history  !"  he  was  saying. 
"  Daughter  of  Castile  mated  to  Corkey  Slithers, 
ha,  ha  !  I  know  my  poem,  when  she  reads  it, 
will  take  her.  What  a  capital  idea  is  poetry  ! 
things  you  cannot  think  of  saying  in  prose, 
how  easy  they  go  in  verse  !  What  a  fine  begin- 
ning is  the  opening  line: 

'  Enchantress  of  Castile*  ! 

Then,  showing  the  power  she  has  concentrated 
on  the  seat  of  my  affections,  I  remark: 

4 1  bend  beneath  thy  heel.' 

If  this  is  not  poetry,  then  all  the  poetry  in 
the  Recent  Collection  of  American  Verse  is  un- 
mitigated prose.  That  poem  is  my  bait,  so 


104  THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY. 

tempting  that,  once  drawn  in  the  line  of  her 
swimming,  she'll  hook." 

Reflections  such  as  these  steadied  his  nerves 
and  brought  victory  nodding  to  him.  He  was 
soon  in  sight  of  the  office.  The  Snipeville 
stage  had  left  — a  fact  that  made  his  pleasant 
thoughts  sour.  The  door  was  shut  —  additional 
evidence  "  of  the  way  things  were  run."  Within 
was  a  laughing  crowd  listening  to  Buttons'  in- 
imitable wood-tales.  Sourness  dislikes  pleasantry. 
He  was  on  his  heel  to  return  when  the  rough, 
awkward  mouth  of  the  receiver  caught  his  eye. 
A  wave  of  joy  passed  through  him.  The  effect 
was  visible  in  his  eyes  and  a  wriggling  in  his 
left  foot.  Taking  his  letter,  pursy  and  un- 
pressed,  he  squeezed  it  through  the  opening. 
The  drop  was  music.  It  was  a  day's  thought, 
a  pretty  story.  The  opening  chapter  in  Squid- 
ville,  the  grand  finale  in  Snipeville.  The  last 
act  was  a  hooked  fish.  All  of  us  have  theatres 
pretty  thoroughly  rigged.  Buttons  stopped  his 
tale  to  remark  that  the  professor  was  of  the 
gentle  folk. 

There  was  a  smile,  a  shuffling  of  feet,  and 
the  story  became  more  interesting.  The  pro- 
fessor was  on  his  return.  His  brain-puppets 
were  in  scene  first,  act  the  second.  It  repre- 


THE   WOOING   OP    MILLY.  105 

sented  William  Buttons  extracting  from  the  re- 
ceiver a  letter  addressed  to  Milly  De  La  Rosa, 
containing  intentions  of  love,  and  a  poem  after 
the  manner  of  a  Recent  Collection  of  Verse. 
The  actor  that  represented  William  seemed  puz- 
zled at  the  handwriting,  and  was  saying  to  Cagy: 
"  I  wonder  who  writes  to  Milly;  I'll  bet  that 
letter's  worth  having."  *'  It  wouldn't  be  Mr. 
Corkey  ? "  responds  Cagy.  "A  happy  day  for 
Milly  to  be  mated  to  such  a  man,"  is  Buttons' 
remark.  Cagy  puts  the  letter  into  the  Snipe- 
ville  bag  with  an  air  of  importance,  and  the 
curtain  drops. 

Weeks  passed;  the  general  verdict  was  that 
Buttons  had  shown  himself  equal  to  his  post. 
Harmony  would  make  the  world  tasteless.  Growl- 
ers are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  There  were  two 
in  Squidville.  Milly  had  not  written,  and  But- 
tons' office  was  denounced  by  Slithers  as  an  ab- 
surdity; in  the  more  expressive  vocabulary  of 
La  Flamme,  as  a  worn-out  fake.  Such  expres- 
sions were  perplexing.  If  Milly  would  not  write, 
why  blame  Buttons  ?  It  is  not  commendable  to 
commit  forgery.  How  else  could  William  have 
given  letters  to  his  eye-devouring  callers  ?  Cagy 
was  slyly  questioned.  He  kept  the  saddle  by 
an  aphorism;  "  You  cannot  tell  what  you  don't 


106  THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY. 

know."  Plants  grow  towards  the  sun;  love  to 
its  object.  Letters  were  to  be  the  rays.  Shut 
off,  love  and  plants  languish.  It  takes  time  to 
kill  them.  Give  them  sunshine  in  the  drooping 
state,  and  they  will  quickly  revive.  Months  had 
passed.  Slithers,  unconsolable  at  first,  was  ad- 
justing his  sorrow.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
he  had  balanced  his  books. 

La  Flamme  became  sick  and  lonely.  The 
store  was  a  nuisance,  friends  a  bother.  Life  was 
full  of  blue  streaks,  sleep  a  friend.  In  church 
he  made  a  mental  vow  never  to  believe  a 
woman's  word.  He  did  not  express  it,  but  the 
idea  was  constant  in  his  mind  that  woman  was 
created,  much  as  the  mountain  brier,  to  tear 
men's  flesh.  The  thought  bothered  him,  as  it 
awoke  another,  that  these  briers  gave  fruit.  At 
this  he  forgot  himself  and  muttered:  "  Love  ! 
Yes,  but  you  must  tear  yourself  to  pluck  it." 
His  mutterings  made  a  charitable  friend  in  a 
back  pew  elbow  him.  He  was  in  a  mood  to 
resent.  His  eyes  did  the  fighting.  It  was  dur- 
ing the  battle  of  glances  that  Pere  Monnier,  in 
his  artless  way,  said:  "  To  accomplish  anything 
in  this  life  requires  sacrifice."  The  rest  of  the 
sermon  was  forgotten;  this  was  a  limb  pulled 
from  the  tree  to  cudgel  the  blue  streaks.  His 


THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY.  107 

love  for  Pere  Monnier  was  great  from  that 
day. 

La  Flamme  was  of  that  great  company  of 
sinners  who  pick  a  line  from  a  sermon  and 
label  it,  "  Meant  for  me."  The  sentence  fitted 
his  mood.  It  became  his  pocket-pistol  through 
life.  With  it  he  shot  sorrow,  and,  let  us  hope, 
kept  the  way  open  to  the  better  land. 

Buttons  had  a  keen  ear  for  sound.  The 
sayings  of  Slithers  and  La  Flamme  nettled  him. 
He  would  have  made  them  chew  their  words  had 
he  not  learned  at  Charley  Pond  that  love  made 
men  queer.  Like  all  guides,  he  leaned  on  the 
past.  Pitying  their  condition,  he  asked  Cagy  to 
find  out  "  a  something  of  Milly."  A  day  later 
Cagy's  information  was  poured  into  his  ears, 
prefaced  by  a  remark  that  Milly  had  no  right  to 
marry  out  of  Squidville.  The  information  was 
scanty,  but  prickly.  It  spoke  of  Slithers  as  "  an 
educated  fool,"  of  La  Flamme  as  "an  ungrate- 
full  wretch."  The  terms  were  strong. 

The  information  came  from  Milly.  Rumor 
added  that  she  was  engaged.  This  news  leaked, 
and  Squidville  had  its  laugh.  "  Corkey  was 
jilted,  La  Flamme  was  crazy,"  was  the  way  it 
was  put  Corkey  from  past  battles  learned  to 
laugh;  La  Flamme  keenly  felt  the  sore,  but 


108  THE   WOOING   OF   MILLY. 

cheered  himself  by  shooting  the  spectre  with  his 
pocket-pistol.  Cagy  was  proud  of  him.  "  His 
father  every  time,"  he  said:  "  under  fire  he 
won't  flinch." 

In  the  way  Milly  had  said  "  ungrateful  wretch  " 
the  old  guide,  so  accustomed  to  study  faces, 
read  hope.  **  Come  with  me,  Frankie,"  he 
said.  "  I'll  never  go  back  on  your  father's 
son.  You'll  have  a  free  ride,  and  you  have  a 
fine  excuse.  Tell  Weeks  you  want  to  see  your 
mother  and  Jenny.  I  have  found  the  track, 
and  the  deer  is  not  so  far  but  we  can  run  her 
down.  Once  she  hears  your  music,  and  knows 
you  are  in  dead  earnest,  I  don't  think  she'll 
run  far." 

La  Flamme  listened.  Had  he  followed  his 
first  thought  he  would  have  started.  Reflection 
made  him  a  coward.  It  began  with  an  if, 
allowed  the  conclusion;  started  another  if, 
allowed  its  conclusion.  Soon  he  had  a  bundle 
of  them.  The  end  of  the  play  represented 
him  leaving  Snipeville  in  disgrace ;  Milly  and  her 
lover,  heads  closely  pressed  behind  a  window 
making  fun  of  him.  He  admitted  his  cowardice- 
was  downed  by  a  brain-figment.  He  had  for- 
gotten his  pocket-pistol.  Cagy  started.  La 
Flamme  bade  him  a  wistful  good-bye.  They 


THE   WOOING   OF   MILLY.  109 

prate  of  love,  that  it  conquers  all  things.  Sar- 
casm has  often  dulled  its  edge.  "  He  who  waits 
will  be  rewarded,"  is  a  stock  phrase,  used  as  a 
trotter  by  the  well-to-do.  It  is  not  much  in 
vogue  with  the  waiter.  Like  most  stock  phrases, 
an  accident  may  give  it  a  meaning. 

A  year  had  passed.  Slithers,  despite  the  vil- 
lage talk,  had  continued  to  woo  the  muses  as 
meshes  for  entangling  Milly.  La  Flamme  had 
daily  fed  Buttons'  receiver  with  letters.  Milly 
was  dead  to  such  appeals.  One  day  the  Snipe- 
ville  stage  brought  a  note.  It  was  for  Frankie 
La  Flamme.  The  handwriting  thrilled  him. 
It  was  evening  before  he  opened  it.  It  was 
short,  a  few  lines.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears; 
he  read: 

"Jenny  Sauv£  has  died  of  fever  to-day.  Your 
mother  is  very  low.  Lose  no  time. 

"  MILLY  DE  LA  ROSA." 

Music  consoles  in  sorrow.  He  whistled. 
Cagy,  who  knew  the  contents  of  the  note,  in- 
formed Weeks.  It  brought  a  sad  scene  to  his 
memory.  Brushing  his  tears  aside  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat,  he  ordered  a  buggy,  and 
bade  Frankie  to  get  to  his  mother  "  as  fast  as 
Nelly  could  put."  He  but  hinted  at  La 


110  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

Flamme's  intention.  The  spirited  beast  threw 
up  her  head,  pawed  vigorously,  sniffed  the  night 
air,  and  started. 

The  road  for  a  few  miles  was  straight  and 
broad;  then  it  curved,  followed  the  river  a  few 
miles,  became  narrow  and  crooked  entering  the 
woods.  The  night,  calm  at  first,  became  fretful 
and  broken.  Rain  changed  to  sleet,  and  the 
wind  became  cold  and  pointed.  The  moon  lay 
amid  dark  clouds,  sending  now  and  then  a  flicker- 
ing glance  to  make  darker  the  harsh  river.  La 
Flamme  was  sure  of  his  road  until  he  entered 
the  forest.  Here  doubts  arose.  So  many  roads 
branched,  some  broader  and  more  travelled  than 
the  one  he  was  on.  He  lighted  his  lamp, 
fixed  it  to  his  dash-board,  uttered  a  prayer  for 
Jenny,  and  took  the  road  that  seemed  most 
travelled.  After  an  hour's  drive  it  led  to  a 
deserted  logging-camp.  Baffled  and  cold,  he 
turned  his  horse  to  seek  his  first  road.  The 
wind  was  rising.  The  branches  of  the  trees 
clashed  above  his  head,  thunder  seemed  human 
in  its  mighty  groan,  pines  whistled,  lightning 
played  before  his  eyes,  now  cracking  a  branch, 
now  heavily  crushing  a  stately  tree.  The  sleet 
became  more  worrying.  At  first  it  brought  the 


THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY.  Ill 

blood  to  his  cheeks,  now  it  seemed  to  lay  open 
his  face  with  the  keenness  of  a  razor-blade. 
Stories  of  ghosts  peopled  his  mind. 

A  rustle  amid  the  branches,  a  quick,  snappy 
yell,  told  him  that  the  dreaded  loup-garou  was 
on  his  track.  He  pulled  his  fur  coat  closer  to 
his  shivering  body,  pressed  the  musk-rat  cap 
closer  to  his  head,  and  shouted  to  his  faithful 
horse.  She  knew  and  loved  his  voice.  Her 
trot  became  faster,  but  jerkier.  He  was  on  his 
old  road.  His  lamp  tossed  and  flickered.  Sleet 
blinded  him,  cold  crept  through  his  buckskin 
gloves,  making  the  reins  fall  from  his  hands. 
His  head  became  dizzy,  his  limbs  stiff.  He  tried 
to  shake  off  this  growing  numbness — curved  his 
mouth  to  whistle,  clapped  his  hands  to  his  sides, 
pounded  his  feet  on  the  bottom  of  his  buggy. 
It  increased  his  weakness.  Gathering  his  voice- 
strength,  he  shouted  to  his  horse,  "  To  Snipe- 
ville,  Nelly  !"  A  hungry  fox,  buried  in  fallen 
brush,  barked. 

Compulsory  confinement  often  gives  boldness 
to  shy  creatures.  "  To  accomplish  anything  in 
this  world  requires  sacrifice,"  came  to  him  in 
his  agony.  He  bent  his  head,  tried  to  curve 
his  voice  to  speech.  He  listened;  no  sound 


113  THE    WOOING    OF    M1LLY. 

came.  He  thought  he  saw  a  light.  Was  it 
his  lamp  ?  The  buggy  swayed;  he  felt  a  sweet, 
pressing  pain. 

Jemmie  Barbier  sat  singing  in  his  cabin,  won- 
dering "  what  the  night  would  turn  to."  He 
thought  he  heard  a  noise,  but,  as  he  said  after- 
wards, "  who  thinks  of  noise  in  a  storm." 
"  Worst  night  I  have  seen  in  twenty  years," 
he  muttered  as  he  went  to  the  door  to  take 
a  peep  at  the  elements.  "  Wind's  changed;  go- 
ing down  as  quick  as  it  came  up.  I'll  make  a 
start  for  Skinny's."  Suddenly  he  became  alarmed 
at  a  strange  noise  and  a  swinging  light  at  the 
end  of  his  house.  Taking  his  lantern  and  gun, 
he  cautiously  advanced. 

His  first  words  were:  "  Some  poor  fellow  hat 
gone  to  his  reward  to-night.  Bless  my  soul, 
Jim  Weeks'  Nelly  !  She  couldn't  drag  the  buggy- 
far  in  that  way.  It  must  have  upset  within 
a  mile  of  here."  Barbier  carefully  unhitched 
the  stamping,  maddened  horse.  One  of  the 
buggy-wheels,  coming  in  contact  with  the  house, 
was  broken  and  the  axle  twisted.  This  seemed 
to  have  restrained  the  poor  animal.  Gently 
leading  her  to  the  barn,  he  wrapped  her  in  an 
old  blanket,  wishing  that  Milly  or  his  wife  was 
home  "  to  wisp  her  a  bit."  "  She'll  be  her- 


THE    WOOING   OF   MILLY.  113 

self  again,"  he  said,  as  he  quickly  hitched  his 
own  horse  and  started  out  to  seek  Nelly's 
driver.  He  was  old,  past  the  seventies,  but 
his  arm  was  strong  and  his  sight  was  keen. 

The  reins  in  one  hand,  the  lantern  in  the 
other,  he  kept  his  eyes  glancing  from  one  side 
of  the  road  to  the  other.  About  a  hundred 
rods  from  his  house,  just  ahead  of  his  horse's 
nose,  he  saw  something  black  lying.  Shouting 
"  Whoa,  my  pet  !  "  he  dismounted  and  ap- 
proached the  lifeless-looking  mass.  He  shook 
it,  saying:  "If  ye  be  earthly,  in  the  name  of 
God  speak."  There  was  no  answer.  Getting 
on  his  knees,  he  turned  the  body  over  until 
his  light  fell  on  the  face.  A  sigh  burst  from 
the  old  woodsman.  "  Frankie  La  Flamme, 
you're  surely  not  dead  !"  Cramping  his  wagon, 
he  lifted  the  youth  tenderly  and  laid  him  across 
the  buggy-seat.  Starting  his  horse,  he  held  the 
limp  body  until  the  door  was  reached;  then 
carried  it  to  his  bed  and  rubbed  it  long,  using 
such  simple  remedies  as  his  cabin  gave.  He 
was  doubtful  of  success.  Sometimes  he  thought 
La  Flamme  was  dead;  then  he  blamed  his  hear- 
ing and  continued  to  rub. 

"  It's  time  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Barbier  to  Milly, 


114  THE   WOOING    OF   MILLY. 

"  and  see  what's  become  of  your  uncle.  I  worry 
about  him.  We  can  do  nothing  more.  We 
stayed  with  her  to  the  last." 

"  Skinny  died  a  happy  death,  auntie.  Pere 
Monnier  said  she  made  her  purgatory  in  this 
life,"  said  Milly. 

"  Yes,  dear,  she  died  a  very  happy  death. 
As  for  purgatory,  a  little  of  it  wouldn't  do  any 
of  us  a  bit  of  harm." 

"  Do  dying  people,  auntie,  always  talk  of 
their  young  days  ?  Didn't  you  hear  how  Skinny 
spoke  of  her  mother — her  eyes  bright  as  coals, 
but  black,  black;  her  father,  his  old  violin, 
Sister  Marie,  her  husband,  and  Frankie,  who 
might  have  been  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  that's  my  way  of  thinking.  I  kind 
of  believe  that  God  shows  us  the  bright  spots 
in  our  life  before  he  takes  us." 

"  Well,  auntie,  then  I'll  talk  of  you  and  Uncle 
Jemmie  when  I'm  dying." 

"  There  may  be  more  to  think  of  than  us, 
child." 

Mrs.  Barbier  and  Milly  knelt  by  the  side  of 
the  old  mattress  on  which  Skinny  lay,  and 
prayed.  On  a  little  fresh  straw,  covered  with 
a  worn-out  spread,  lay  the  once  laughing  Jenny 
Sauve,  sweet  in  death. 


THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY.  115 

"We  have  all  to  come  to  this,"  said  Mrs. 
Barbier,  rising;  then,  turning  to  the  anxious  faces 
that  had  hurried  from  their  homes  on  the  first 
noise  of  Skinny's  death,  "Wash  and  dress  her. 
Milly  and  I  are  a  little  sleepy;  besides,  Jemmie's 
old,  and  helpless  about  getting  his  own  food. 
Come,  Milly,  and  don't  forget  Skinny's  present — . 
the  picture.  I'll  keep  the  violin  for  Frankie." 

They  passed  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were 
in  view  of  the  log  cabin.  "  Uncle  was  just 
coming  for  us,  auntie,"  said  Milly:  "see  old 
Peggin  harnessed  before  the  door." 

"  It  was  always  his  way,  child,  since  I've  known 
him."  The  door  was  wide  open.  They  entered. 
Tucked  in  the  cosey  bed  lay  Frank  La  Flamme, 
Jemmie  Barbier  bending  over  him,  towel  in  hand. 
His  face  wore  a  triumphant  smile. 

"  I've  got  him  where  I  wanted  him.  I've  got 
him.  Your  old  man  is  no  slouch,  Selina.  I've 
cured  him  myself.  He  was  dead  all  morning. 
About  half  an  hour  ago  he  commenced  to  live, 
and  is  doing  first  rate  since.  He's  his  father, 
every  inch  of  him;  cordy  as  a  beech." 

"Since  he  sleeps,  uncle,"  said  Milly,  "tell 
us  how  and  where  you  found  him." 

"You  little  rascal!  you're  not  a  bit  sleepy." 

"Why  don't  you  answer  my  question,  uncle?" 


Tl6  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

"  Because  I'm  no  hand  at  story-telling.  You 
get  him  well,  and  then  you'll  have  the  water  at 
first  dip." 

A  few  weeks  later  Frankie  lay  by  the  win- 
dow, gazing  at  the  long,  dark  line  of  bleak 
pines.  He  had  just  been  told  of  his  mother's 
death.  It  was  a  sad  day.  Milly  had  twitted 
him  for  promising  to  write  daily,  and  then 
"  shamefully  breaking  his  promise."  Explana- 
tions made  things  worse.  She  had  nursed  him 
back  to  health;  "  but,"  and  her  eyes  showered 
fire-sparks,  "  they  could  only  be  friends."  She 
had  almost  said  the  terrible  yes  to  another. 
Frankie,  left  to  himself,  drew  his  pocket-pistol 
charged  with  sacrifice.  It  shot  the  spectre  of 
his  mother.  Love  laughed  at  its  bullets.  No 
other  would  have  the  choice  of  his  life;  saved 
from  death  was  to  him  preserved  for  a  better 
life.  Like  most  woodsmen,  his  beliefs  were 
positive.  What  better  life  than  to  be  mated 
with  Milly  ?  He  pressed  his  head  to  the  pillow, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  went  through  the  drama 
"  Love."  Milly's  tip-toeing  called  him  to  his 
surroundings.  Love  is  all  ears,  ever  ready  to 
catch  the  slightest  sound  of  the  object  loved. 
He  nestled  in  his  cot,  pretending  sleep,  but 
letting  his  half-shut  eyes  take  in  the  vision. 


THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY.  II? 

Woman's  eyes  are  quick;  she  smiled  at  his 
trickery.  "  Frankie  La  Flamme,  don't  you  close 
your  eyes  when  you  sleep  ? "  she  said.  He 
smiled  and  was  captured.  "  Guess  who's  here  ?" 
she  said.  He  was  indifferent.  "  Oh,  do  guess  !" 
she  continued.  "  I'll  give  the  first  letter  of 
the  name."  He  shut  his  eyes.  The  name  of 
his  rival  crossed  his  mind  and  soured  his  thoughts. 
' '  Guess  quick ;  they  come  !  "  she  cried.  He 
turned  to  look  her  full  in  the  face.  Fortune 
was  on  the  turn:  Billy  Buttons  and  Cagy  en- 
tered the  room,  Buttons  carrying  a  huge  bag. 
Stepping  in  front  of  the  sick  man's  cot,  he 
emptied  the  bag  before  him,  shouting,  "  Cagy, 
make  the  darned  thing  clear."  Envelopes,  big 
and  small,  crushed  and  bulgy,  envelopes  of  all 
colors  and  makes,  made  the  strange-looking  pile. 
What  a  heap  of  fond  dreams  !  Frankie's  eyes 
were  lost  in  them. 

"  Sit  down,  Milly;  you  have  something  to 
hear,"  said  Cagy.  "  I'm  to  blame  for  this  whole 
mess.  I  told  Bill  to  put  in  a  receiver.  Bill 
was  always  obliging.  To  help  folks  in  it  went; 
but  in  putting  it  in  devil  a  hole  he  left  to  take 
out  the  letters.  Well,  it  might  have  run  on  till 
Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  had  not  La  Jeunesse 
thrown  little  Brie  against  it,  and  smashed  the 


Il8  THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY. 

darned  thing.  The  minute  it  fell,  pop  came  the 
letters  by  the  bushel.  They  were  all  for  you 
in  two  handwritings.  '  Faith/  says  I,  '  Milly 
will  have  reading  for  six  weeks,  constant  go. 
Says  Whistler,  '  She  has  got  the  grip  on  But- 
tons. She  can  send  him  to  the  jail  for  obstructing 
the  going  of  Uncle  Sam's  mail.'  It's  a  life  job 
at  that.  Weeks  thought  it  was  best  to  lay  the 
outs  and  ins  of  the  case  before  Pere  Monnier. 
Whistler  said  that  the  pere  would  know  all  the 
law  in  the  case,  and  he  advised  Billy  to  take 
his  medicine  like  a  man.  Buttons  don't  fear 
the  face  of  clay,  and  he  done  too  much  for 
you  when  old  Jenks'  brain  cracked  for  you  to 
bring  action  against  him  for  a  few  letters.  Pere 
Monnier  fixed  the  thing  in  a  jiffy.  He  told 
Buttons  to  bring  you  the  letters,  and  hoped  the 
reading  would  do  you  and  Frankie  much  good. 
I  hope  so.  That's  all  there  is  to  the  story,  if 
I  was  to  die  on  the  spot  !  Of  course  if  you 
want  to  be  mean — but  I  don't  think  there's  a 
drop  of  that  kind  in  you — you'll  report  us.  I 
don't  care  for  myself,  but  Buttons  has  a  lot  of 
mouths  to  fill." 

Tears  trickled  down  the  girl's  cheeks.      "  Re- 
port you  !  "  she  sobbed.      "  How  could  you  say 


THE    WOOING    OF   MILLY.  119 

that  of  your  little  girl,  Cagy  ?  And  you  stand 
there  and  let  him,  Billy  !  " 

She  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  two  old 
guides  who  stammered  out  apologies,  Cagy's 
voice  highest,  saying,  "  Milly,  didn't  I  provise 
there's  not  a  drop  of  that  kind  in  you,  and 
ain't  it  so  ? " 

"  Milly,"  said  Buttons,  "  Cagy  would  knock 
the  man  down  that  would  say  anything  about 
you.  You're  a  credit  to  Squidville.  If  poor 
Dory  was  alive,  wouldn't  she  be  proud  of  you! 
No  wonder  Jemmie,  ay,  and  for  that  matter 
Frankie's  daft  about  you.  Cagy,  come  and  let 
the  two  youngsters  read  the  pile  and  have  a 
bit  of  a  talk  over  it.  I'll  have  no  new  wrinkles 
in  my  business  again.  Every  man  must  come 
up  to  the  counter  and  do  his  business  open;  no 
more  receivers  for  gentle  folk  in  Squidville." 

"  Don't  be  rubbing  the  healing  skin  on  the 
old  sore,"  said  Cagy.  "  It's  all  over.  Let  us 
go  to  the  kitchen  and  have  a  smoke  with 
Jemmie." 

"  Dinner's  all  ready,"  said  Selina,  poking  her 
head  into  the  room.  "  It's  a  cure  for  sore 
eyes  to  see  Blind  Cagy  and  Billy  Buttons  in 
our  house.  Yous  won't  put  a  foot  out  of  this 


120  THE    WOOING    OF    MILLY. 

door  to-night.  It's  little  enough  that  the  Snipe- 
ville  stage  can  take  one  day  in  the  year." 
Cagy  was  of  the  same  way  of  thinking;  he 
held  the  reins. 

When  he  arrived  a  day  late  in  Squidville  his 
only  remark  was,  "  Another  man  would  have 
remained  a  couple  of  days."  On  this  Whistler 
said,  "  It  seems  strange  there  could  be  such  a 
storm  in  Snipeville  and  not  strike  us." 

A  year  after  Professor  Corkey  Slithers  ad- 
dressed his  pupils:  '  I  have  this  jocund  day 
received  an  invitation  to  the  wedding  of  two 
of  my  former  pupils,  Frankie  La  Flamme  and 
Milly  De  La  Rosa.  Tell  your  mothers  to  send 
flowers  to  the  church  next  Tuesday,  where  your 
teacher  and  you,  my  boys  and  girls,  will  put 
up  the  finest  decoration  that  Squidville  shall 
ever  see,  if  she  shall  prolong  her  existence  to 
the  end  of  the  world." 

"  Big-hearted  Slithers  !  "  said  Weeks. 
"  Knows  when  to  give  up,"  said  Buttons. 
"  A  gentleman  and  a  scholar,"  was  the  com- 
mon word.  Pere  Monnier  heartily  laughed. 
Squidville  was  happy. 


SKINNY    BENOIT'S   SON.  121 


CHAPTER   VI. 
SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

"  HAVE  you  heard  of  Squidville,  on  the  Sal- 
mon River?  Of  course  you  must.  It  was  there 
that  Bob  Stevens  fought  his  famous  fight  with 
the  big  Indian  Jock. 

"  The  little  stage  over  yonder  at  Ransom's 
runs  through  Squidville  and  stops  at  Porcupine 
Creek.  You  say  you  want  fishing;  if  you  do, 
youngster,  that's  the  place." 
^The  speaker  was  a  tall,  angular  man  with 
high  forehead,  indented  cheeks,  and  gray,  pierc- 
ing eyes.  He  was  still  lithe  and  active,  al- 
though past  the  forties.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  he  was  a  French-Canadian,  and  his  tanned 
cheeks  and  shoulder-droop  made  the  guessing  of 
his  occupation  an  easy  task.  A  few  days  before 
the  rain  had  come  down  in  torrents,  the  river 
was  swollen,  and  thousands  of  logs,  like  bits  of 
kindling-wood,  were  carried  down  its  angry  cur- 
rent from  Squidville  and  Porcupine  Creek.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  the  river  subsided,  and  the 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

choppers  had  come  down  to  Malone  to  have 
their  logs  measured,  and  to  receive  pay  for 
their  winter's  work.  One  of  them  was  the 
speaker,  Frank  La  Flamme;  and  the  man  that 
he  wished  to  visit  his  mountain  home  was  a 
clerk  of  the  company  that  had  bought  his  logs. 
The  clerk  promised  that  his  first  vacation  would 
be  passed  in  Squidville;  and  as  the  stageman 
was  hitching  his  horses  La  Flamme,  with  a 
"  Mind  your  promise,  youngster,"  hurried  off 
and  mounted  the  stage.  An  elderly  lady,  with 
a  noticeable  tinge  of  Sioux  blood  in  her  veins, 
was  just  then  being  politely  helped  into  the 
stage  by  a  grave,  dignified,  bald-headed  mer- 
chant, while  his  business  partner  was  barely  able 
to  place  by  her  side  a  huge  basket  of  groceries. 
"  Comment  fa  va,  grandmother.  You're  early 
getting  ready  for  the  dance."  The  old  lady 
smiled,  muttered  "  Out,1'  and  settled  herself  to 
sleep.  The  bald-headed  man,  hearing  La 
Flamme's  voice,  seemed  glad.  His  face,  at 
least,  showed  some  lighter  shades  akin  to 
laughter. 

"Hello,  Frank!  ain't   you    comin'    in?" 

11  I    guess  not,   Mr.   Ransom." 

*'  Well,  Frank,  you  may  do  as  you  please. 
You  promised  to  pay  us  the  interest,  at  least, 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  1*3 

as   soon    as   you  sold    your   logs.      If   you   break 
your    promise    I   cannot    keep  mine." 

"  Mr.  Ransom,"  said  La  Flamme,  holding 
down  his  head,  "  do  give  me  a  little  time. 
Times  are  bad;  the  new  standard  has  destroyed 
us  this  year;  and,  as  if  that  was  not  enough, 
I  had  to  lose  my  horse  with  a  spavin.  What 
was  I  to  do  ?  I  had  to  go  in  debt  for  another, 
so  that  I  could  skid  my  logs  in  time.  You 
can  wait.  You  know  I'm  as  honest  as  the 
sun.  Didn't  I  deal  with  you  for  twenty  years, 
and  didn't  you  always  get  your  pay  some 
time  ?" 

"  I  won't  wait,  Frank,"  was  the  gruff  answer 
of  Mr.  Ransom  as  he  politely  bowed  to  his 
now  nodding  customer,  Grandmother  Croquet. 
It  was  not  Croquet's  way  to  notice  what  she 
disdainfully  called  "  Yankee  business  touches." 

'  Ransom,  you're  a  scoundrel;  you  told  me 
to  come  and  trade,  and  pay  when  I  got  ready; 
now,  because  I  am  deep  in  your  books,  you 
throw  away  the  glove  and  show  your  hand.  I 
can't  pay;  so  do  your  best,"  was  La  Flamme's 
rejoinder,  hissed  through  his  teeth,  while  his 
dark  gray  eyes  became  feline  in  their  expres- 
sion. 

The    crack    of    the    stageman's    whip    was    the 


124  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

full-stop  mark  to  the  conversation.  The  old 
lady  woke,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  noting  La 
Flamme's  sulk,  that  had  spread  over  his  face, 
muttered,  "  Devra  avoir  hdnte,  Frangois  " ;  then 
gave  a  sharp  look  at  her  basket,  shut  her  eyes, 
and  went  asleep.  A  half-dozen  of  choppers, 
with  their  bright  red  stockings  drawn  tightly 
over  their  pants'  legs,  and  their  wide-rimmed 
hats  set  back  on  their  heads,  boarded  the 
stage,  talking  loudly  their  patois,  gesticulat- 
ing, laughing  immoderately,  presenting  to  the 
casual  observer  that  peculiar  phase  of  the 
French-Canadian  character — present  contentment. 

44  Gee    up  !  "   said    the    stageman. 

"  Get  a  gait  on  your  horses,"  said  one  of 
the  choppers.  44  I  like  that  horse  on  the  nigh, 
but  his  mate's  a  dandy,"  said  another.  "  They 
are  breeched  and  spavined,"  said  a  third.  "  I 
wouldn't  give  a  dollar  mortgage  on  them,"  said 
the  fourth,  pulling  from  his  inside  pocket  a 
huge  black  bottle  of  Canadian  high-wines.  The 
bottle  was  carelessly  passed  around;  even  the 
elderly  lady  with  the  tinge  of  Sioux  awoke  in 
time  to  take  what  Berry,  the  driver,  called  "  a 
'  sky-flier'  of  a  pull."  La  Flamme,  with  sullen 
look,  held  himself  aloof  from  this  growing  weak- 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  125 

ness  of  the  French-Canadian  who  has  made  the 
States  his  home. 

It  was  strange  —  so  strange  to  his  fellow- 
choppers  that  little  Piquet  vowed  that  "  Frank 
was  coming  to  be  an  angel." 

"  There's  as  much  fear  of  that  as  a  wood- 
chuck  leaving  his  hole  when  you  are  around," 
said  big  La  Jeunesse,  looking  serious. 

"  Hand  him  that  bottle,  Brie,  and  let  him 
have  an  old-time  swig;  it's  the  genuine  thing. 
See  how  it  opened  Grandmother  Croquet's  eyes," 
cried  Berry,  turning  on  his  seat  to  see  if  An- 
drieux,  who  hugged  the  bottle  to  his  chest, 
would  fulfil  his  commands. 

"  Andrieux,"  said  La  Flamme,  drawing  his 
tm'n  lips  in  the  way  of  his  teeth,  "  I  will  not 
touch  that  cursed  stuff.  It  has  been  my  ruin 
for  many  a  day.  Can't  you  fellows  have  fun 
enough  without  me  ?  I  have  bother  enough. 
That  miserable  beggar  the  horse-dealer  met  me 
an  hour  ago  and  made  me  pay  in  full  for  that 
old  horse  that  he  '  palmed  '  on  me  as  a  young 
beast — yes,  all  the  money  that  I  had,  even  the 
interest  due  to  Ransom.  I  guess  it's  always 
the  way:  if  you're  poor  everybody  wants  to 
bite  you." 


iz6  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

' '  How  much  did  you  give  him  ? ' '  said  Berry, 
cracking  his  whip. 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty-five,"  was  La 
Flamme's  doleful  reply. 

"  Heavens  !  "    said    Piquet. 

"  You   were   taken    in,"    said    Andrieux. 

"  The  horse  ain't  worth  fifty  dollars.  The 
moment  I  saw  him  I  told  you  that  he  was 
spavined.  Didn't  I,  Frank  ? "  shouted  Brie. 

"  You  fellows  know  everything  about  a  horse 
when  somebody  tells  you.  Why  don't  you  air 
your  wisdom  before  a  fellow  as  poor  as  I  be 
makes  a  trade?"  was  La  Flamme's  sarcastic 
reply. 

"Well,  La  Flam  me  " — and  Brie  pulled  from 
his  pocket  a  huge  plug  of  newly  bought  tobacco, 
carefully  rolled  in  a  deer-skin  bag — "because 
you  have  the  name  of  being  a  kind  of  horse- 
jockey;  and  no  matter  how  good  a  hand  a  man 
might  be  around  horses,  he's  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  give  pointers  to  a  jockey." 

The  discussion  came  to  an  abrupt  end  by 
Berry  jumping  from  his  wagon,  dancing  and 
slapping  his  hands  against  the  side  of  his  big 
coat,  shouting,  "  Squidville  !  All  out  for  Squid- 
ville  !  " 

Squidville — its  origin    is   lost    in  obscurity,  like 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  127 

that  of  most  mountain  towns  in  these  regions. 
Billy  Buttons,  the  guide,  avows  that  it  is  named 
after  a  man  named  Squid,  while  Blind  Cagy 
says  that  its  name  is  Skidville,  or  the  place 
where  they  skidded  logs.  The  traveller  has  no 
escape  between  these  rural  historians,  whose 
arguments  pro  and  con  are  the  nightly  fascina- 
tion of  Squidville  Hotel.  Squidville — I  prefer 
the  spelling  of  Buttons — "  is  the  easiest  town  in 
the  state  to  find  your  way  in " ;  that  is  the 
first  salutation  of  Jim  Weeks,  the  jolly,  fat  pro- 
prietor of  the  Hunter's  Paradise.  The  town 
skulks  along  the  Salmon  River  for  a  distance 
of  half  a  mile.  "  The  number  of  log  cabins 
in  this  our  city,"  says  Buttons,  "  is  two-and- 
twtnty,  sir." 

"  Mind,  we  are  not  counting  the  hotel, 
which  be  a  frame  house,  sir,  with  nigh  twenty 
beds  as  fine  as  silk,"  Cagy  drops  in  to  remark. 

There  is  but  one  street  in  this  village — Pleas- 
ant View.  Country  folk  have  their  ideas  of 
beauty  as  well  as  their  city  brethren.  When 
Squidville  was  laid  out  by  Mr.  Potter,  the  genial 
Weeks — standing  on  the  top  of  the  brae  that 
leads  through  the  woods  to  Porcupine  Creek, 
and  looking  at  the  Salmon  River  winding  itself 
like  a  silver  thread  through  the  bits  of  green 


iz8  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

wood  and  marshy  meadow-land,  as  if  inspired, 
so  says  Cagy  —  cried  out :  ' '  Boys,  a  pleasant 
view  !  "  That  exclamation  named  Squidville's 
only  street,  and  immortalized  the  name  of  Weeks. 
The  last  house  on  Pleasant  View  looks  like  a 
cross  between  a  Queen  Anne  cottage  and  a  lum- 
bering shanty.  There  is  a  liberty-pole  before 
the  door,  and  a  tattered  flag  flying  from  it. 
Swinging  from  a  post,  ornamented  in  lines  of 
red  and  white,  plainly  telling  of  Weeks'  love 
for  his  old  trade,  is  a  flaming  golden  sign: 

"  Hunter's  Paradise. 
Jim  Weeks,  Prop. 
Best  Summer  Resort  in  the  Adirondacks." 

Before  the  door,  shivering  in  the  cold,  ran 
two  bow-legged,  long-eared  hounds,  whining  and 
waving  their  tails.  Grandmother  Croquet,  fiercely 
holding  her  basket,  was  the  first  to  amble  from 
the  stage.  Weeks,  bareheaded  and  bowing, 
escorted  her  to  the  hotel,  while  Buttons  re- 
marked that  he  did  not  know  where  Croquet 
got  the  money  to  buy  such  a  lot  of  things, 
and  Cagy,  hot  with  rage,  avowed  that  Croquet's 
folks  "  have  as  good  a  right  to  money  as  any 
folks  in  this  darned  country."  Mrs.  Croquet 
and  her  basket  safe  in  the  care  of  Weeks,  the 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  129 

wood-choppers  sprang  lightly  from  the  stage  and 
were  soon  busy  helping  the  slow  Berry  to  un- 
hitch and  feed  his  curdy-looking  team.  Kind- 
ness is  a  mountain  virtue;  it  is  the  golden  link 
that  unites  these  poor  people  and  makes  life 
pleasant  during  the  long,  sullen  stretches  of  the 
winter  months.  There  are  scores  of  men  and 
women  daily  met  with,  up  and  down  the  road 
of  life,  who  have  a  kind  of  philosophy  that  tells 
them  that  every  natural  event  in  their  lives  is 
heralded  by  a  supernatural  one.  The  poet  was 
in  sight  of  this  when  he  wrote,  "  Coming  events 
cast  their  shadows  before."  It  is  useless  to 
argue  with  such  people  in  the  vain  effort  of 
converting  them.  Would  it  not  be  pleasant 
t»  be  able  to  write  of  this  superstition  as  a 
corn  only  found  on  the  toes  of  the  ignorant  ? 
Very;  but  would  it  be  true?  If  biography  be 
not  a  grand  conspiracy  against  truth,  as  some 
one  said  of  history,  many  prominent  agnostics 
wore  a  tight- fitting  shoe. 

La  Flamme  was  the  last  to  jump  from  the 
stage,  and  when  he  had  done  so  he  leaned 
against  the  stage-shafts  as  if  dazed.  His  ordi- 
nary habit  would  have  been  to  lend  Berry  a 
willing  hand  to  unyoke  his  team.  Brie,  noticing 
this,  shouted,  "  La  Flamme,  are  you  dreaming  ?  " 


130  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

Yes,  he    was   dreaming. 

A  few  days  before  a  blackbird,  during  a  heavy 
snow-storm,  had  beaten  its  way  through  the 
paper  pane  and  sought  safety  and  rest  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  wife,  as  she  busied  herself  pre- 
paring the  brown  johnny-cake  and  the  thick, 
black  coffee  for  her  husband.  La  Flamme  in 
the  natural  goodness  of  his  heart,  instead  of 
killing  the  drooping  bird  and  averting  ill  luck, 
caught  it,  gave  it  something  to  eat,  tenderly 
nursed  it,  and  when  the  storm  was  spent  re- 
stored it  to  liberty  and  its  native  haunts. 
Dreaming  there  by  the  stage-shaft,  this  bird 
once  more  crossed  his  vision.  We  are  but  the 
sport  of  thought.  His  Canadian  mother  had 
often  sung  to  him  what  a  dire  messenger  of 
ill  luck  was  the  blackbird.  Her  teaching  had 
not  been  lost.  The  kindliness  of  the  man's 
heart  had  saved  the  bird,  but  in  that  very  act 
he  saw  the  beginning  of  his  misfortune.  Why 
did  the  horse-dealer,  who  lived  in  Belmont, 
happen  to  be  in  Malone?  Why  did  Ransom, 
in  whose  store  he  had  traded  for  twenty  years, 
threaten  him  with  law  ?  He  could  not  answer 
these  questions  a  few  minutes  ago;  now  it  was 
easy  to  do  so  when  the  scene  in  his  cabin  a 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  131 

few  days  ago  came  to  his  memory.  It  was 
his  failure  to  kill  the  blackbird,  and  black  super- 
stition drove  kindness  from  the  wood-chopper's 
warm  heart.  "  Why  didn't  I  kill  that  cursed 
bird  ? "  he  muttered.  "  Misfortune  is  on  me 
and  mine."  How  often  has  an  accident,  taking 
place  at  the  right  moment,  confirmed  as  a  life- 
long truth  the  silliest  superstition  !  It  was  to 
be  so  with  Frank  La  Flamme. 

Brie  led  one  horse  to  the  stable,  Berry  an- 
other. As  they  did  so  the  stage-shafts  fell  to 
the  ground. 

The  dreamer  woke  and  walked  over  to  Weeks, 
the  two  dogs  executing  a  kind  of  dance  around 
him.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  Buttons,  sit- 
ting on  an  empty  soap-box  on  the  piazza,  re- 
marked to  Cagy  "  that  it  was  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  had  seen  Frank  slow  to  make 
of  his  dogs." 

"And  look  at  them,"  says  Cagy,  "with 
their  front  paws  on  his  vest,  as  if  they  were 
Christians. ' ' 

La  Flamme  took  no  notice  of  his  dogs,  but, 
bidding  bon  voyage  to  Andrieux,  mounted  the 
piazza.  Buttons  had  a  dozen  questions  ready 
for  him,  when  Cagy,  with  a  knowing  nudge, 


IJ2  SKINNY    BENOIT  &   SON. 

brought  Buttons'  ear  close  to  his  mouth  and 
whispered:  "  La  Flamme's  little  girl  is  in  the 
store,  crying." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  was  Buttons'  reply 
as  he  and  Cagy  craned  their  necks — striking  an 
attitude  peculiar  to  an  Adirondack  guide. 

"Is  pa  here,  Mr.  Weeks?"  said  the  dark- 
eyed,  scantily  clad  little  maid,  looking  piteously 
in  the  landlord's  face. 

"  Yes,  dear,  he  has  just  put  his  foot  on  the 
piazza.  And  what's  the  matter  with  my  girl 
to-day  ?  You  have  been  crying,"  said  the  land- 
lord, rubbing  away  the  child's  tears  with  the 
back  of  his  big  hand. 

"  Because  mamma  is  sick,  very  sick.  The 
priest  and  doctor  are  with  her,  and  she  wants 
my  papa,"  sobbed  the  child. 

La  Flamme  stood  in  the  doorway;  the  words 
smote  his  heavy  heart.  "  Aily!  Aily!  "  he 
cried. 

"  Papa — mamma  !  "  sobbed  the  child,  as  she 
fell  in  her  father's  arms. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  village 
hostelry,  in  one  of  the  two-and-twenty  low, 
shambling  log  houses,  lived  La  Flamme.  His 
house  was  built  in  Squidville's  only  style — logs 
mortised  together,  with  here  and  there  a  huge 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  133 

iron  clamp,  "  to  steady  her  a  bit,"  as  Cagy 
used  to  remark.  The  space  between  the  logs 
was  filled  up  with  rough  mortar.  The  effect 
of  such  a  house  on  the  eye  was  far  from  pleas- 
ing; yet  in  point  of  comfort  it  far  excelled 
the  ordinary  country  frame  house.  It  was  one 
of  Buttons'  ordinary  remarks  that  "  such  houses 
were  native  to  the  soil,"  and  there  was  much 
truth  in  this  observation. 

When  dark  clouds  teem  on  the  mountain's 
brow,  and  fierce  winds  drive  the  sleet  over  the 
lowlands,  making  it  as  prickly  as  sharp-pointed 
needles,  there  is  an  indescribable  comfort  in  a 
log  cabin,  with  its  laughing  fire  of  crackling  pine 
logs.  A  stranger  would  easily  guess  that  there 
was  something  wrong  in  this  cabin  from  the 
continual  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door,  and 
the  dozen  or  more  women,  with  black  shawls 
closely  drawn  about  their  heads,  that  formed 
themselves  in  little  knots  before  the  door,  talk- 
ing in  a  subdued  voice.  One  of  them,  a 
woman  of  coarse  features  and  rugged  build, 
leaving  the  others,  pulled  the  latch-string  and 
entered. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Poulet,"  said  But- 
tons, who  had  led  the  village  in  its  race  to  the 
sick-house. 


134  SKINNY    BENOIT  S   SON. 

"Will  she  be  at  herself  again?"  inquired 
Cagy. 

Throwing  her  head  back,  and  letting  the  shawl 
fall  on  her  broad  shoulders,  Mrs.  Poulet  scorn- 
fully rejoined,  "  You  fellows  here,  drinking  up 
all  the  air  that  the  poor  woman  should  have;" 
and  then  with  stately  step  advanced  to  the 
sick  woman's  bed. 

"  That's  a  tomboy  for  you  !  "  was  the  only 
remark  that  slipped  the  tongue  of  the  crest- 
fallen Cagy. 

"  Poor  Milly  !  "  said  Mrs.  Poulet,  bending  over 
the  sick  woman;  then,  turning  to  La  Flamme, 
who  was  kneeling  by  the  bedside  of  his  wife, 
pillowing  her  drooping  head  on  his  tawny  arm: 
"  Better  send  Aily  to  some  of  the  neighbors. 
She  is  breaking  her  heart,  poor  thing." 

Aily  was  leaning  over  her  mother's  face  kiss- 
ing the  damp  sweat  from  her  forehead.  La 
Flamme  did  not  hear:  his  eyes  were  fastened 
on  a  rough  print  representing  Christ  as  the 
good  pastor — bought  years  ago  from  a  Jewish 
pedlar,  and  pinned  to  the  side  wall  near  his  bed. 

"  She  is  getting  worse,"  said  Mrs.  Poulet, 
turning  away  her  head  to  hide  her  tears. 

At  this  remark  the  young  priest,  who  had 
stood  by  the  foot  of  the  bed,  now  knelt  by 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  135 

the  side  of  it  and  commenced  to  pray  aloud 
in  French.  He  was  joined  by  a  dozen  voices: 
even  those  out-of-doors  knelt  on  the  cold,  damp 
ground  to  utter,  in  response  to  the  rich,  bass 
voice  of  their  priest,  a  prayer  for  Milly  La 
Flamme.  The  doctor,  a  thin,  talkative  man, 
whose  hero  was  Thomas  Paine,  removed  his  fur 
cap.  This  doctor  used  to  take  my  place  when 
the  roads  between  Snipeville  and  Squidville  were 
blocked.  It  is  told  to  this  day  in  Squidville 
that  his  lips  moved  as  if  in  prayer. 

"  I  think  it  would  ease  her  to  have  warm 
bottles  to  her  feet,"  said  Mrs.  Croquet,  panting 
from  her  quick  walk. 

"  You  can  have  all  the  bottles  you  want  in 
"my  store,"  said  Weeks. 

"  I'll  have  them  in  a  jiffy,"  said  Buttons, 
opening  the  door. 

"  It's   useless,"   said   the   doctor. 

"  Ay,   useless  sure,"    muttered    Mrs.   Poulet. 

La  Flamme's  wife  looked  at  her  husband;  his 
eyes  were  still  fastened  on  the  print;  then  her 
eyes  wandered  to  it.  Aily,  wondering,  looked 
at  her  parents'  faces  and  set  hers  in  the  same 
direction. 

"  Bon   Past  fur"   said    La   Flamme. 

"  Aidez   ma  tntre,"    responded  Aily. 


136  SKINNY   BENOIT'S  SON. 

"  She   is   dead,"    said   the   doctor. 

"  Dead,"    repeated   the   priest. 

"  She  was  a  good  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Croquet. 

"  Good  and  bad  all  together  must  go,"  said 
Mrs.  Poulet,  pulling  the  shawl  over  her  head. 

44  It's  a  hard  one  for  poor  Frank,"  ejaculated 
Weeks,  with  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 

"  She   died    like   an    angel,"    said    Brie. 

"  She  went  off  in  the  crack  of  a  whip,"  said 
Berry. 

"  Here's  the  bottles,"  said  Buttons,  opening 
the  door. 

"  Yer  too  late,  Buttons;  and  she  don't  want 
bottles  on  the  other  side.  God  rest  her," 
said  Cagy. 

"  Amen,"  replied  Buttons.  "  But  you  don't 
tell  me  it's  all  over  with  her  ? " 

"  She's  as  dead  as  a  nail,"  said  Cagy,  with 
a  long-drawn  sigh. 

"  Ay,  sure,  Billy  Buttons,"  put  in  a  dozen 
voices,  "  Milly  La  Flamme  is  dead." 

Squidville  has  a  graveyard  on  the  Porcupine 
road,  a  good  half-mile  from  the  village.  It  is 
a  bit  of  clearing  of  about  three  acres  in  the 
heart  of  the  woods,  fenced  in  with  huge  burnt 
logs.  In  the  centre  stands  a  rough  wooden 


SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON.  137 

cross,  and  here  and  there  a  black  pine  stump, 
looking  like  sentinels  of  the  dead.  To  this  quiet 
spot  came  the  body  of  Milly  La  Flamme,  borne 
on  a  rough  country  wagon,  drawn  by  Weeks' 
pair  of  four-year-old  bay  colts,  followed  by  Berry 
and  the  Squidville  stage,  carrying  La  Flamme, 
the  weeping  Aily,  and  their  relatives. 

Behind  the  stage  came  the  people  of  Squid- 
ville mounted  on  all  kinds  of  rigs. 

The  last  prayer  said,  and  the  first  shovelful 
of  clay  thrown  on  the  coffin  by  Pere  Monnier, 
La  Flamme  led  his  little  girl  from  her  mother's 
grave.  Before  he  had  reached  the  stage  a  hand 
was  lightly  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

He  turned  around.  "  Good-day,  Frank." 
""Good-day,  Sheriff  Matson."  "  I  am  sorry 
for  your  troubles,  Frank,"  continued  the  sheriff, 
"  and  had  I  known  of  them  I  would  not  be 
here  to-day.  Poor  fellow!  you  have  trouble 
enough  without  me  bothering  you,  but" — and 
the  sheriff's  voice  was  troubled — "  have  courage, 
Frank.  I  will  go  home." 

"  Sheriff,  I  know  it  is  not  your  fault  to  be 
here  to-day.  You  must  do  your  duty.  You 
come  from  Ransom.  Well,  there's  no  use  in 
putting  you  to  a  second  trip.  All  I  have  is 
the  two  horses  and  wagon  that  La  Jeunesse  is 


138  SKINNY  BENOIT'S  SON. 

driving.  Take  them;  they  will  pay  the  debt. 
There's  no  luck  for  me  in  this  place.  Tell 
Ransom,  sheriff,  that  it's  the  old  story:  get  on 
a  storekeeper's  books  and  slavery  begins.  That 
was  Milly's  constant  warning,  sheriff;  she  often 
used  to  say,  '  It  is  better,  Frank,  to  do  without 
something  than  go  in  debt  for  it.'  But  Milly 
is  dead,  dead  !  sheriff,  and  my  motherless  child 
and  I,  as  soon  as  we  say  good-by  to  Pere 
Monnier,  will  start  for  the  West.  Some  day 
Aily  and  I  might  have  money  enough  to  buy 
Milly  a  headstone." 

' '  Go  away,  papa,  and  leave  mamma  here  ? ' ' 
said  the  child. 

"  No,  mamma  is  in  heaven,  Aily;  and  heaven 
is  in  the  West  as  well  as  here," 


THE   RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  139 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    RETURN    OF    CORKEY    SLITHERS. 

IT  was  a  saying  in  Squidville,  "  Live  in  it 
once,  and  you'll  live  in  it  again."  I  am  free 
to  confess  there  is  something  in  the  saying. 

Professor  Slithers  left  us  vowing  vengeance, 
shaking,  as  he  put  it,  "  the  pulverized  dust- 
particles  from  his  feet  forever."  After  two  years 
of  wandering,  no  one  knows  where,  he  returned, 
which,  in  Squidville  at  least,  made  the  saying 
authentic. 

It  is  of  his  coming,  and  the  strange  things 
that  thereafter  happened,  I  write — rather  copy 
from  my  old  yellow  diary.  And,  by  the  way, 
to  quote  friend  Buttons,  "  the  past  is  a  mighty 
queer  customer."  What  memories  this  old  faded 
copy-book  brings — memories  of  other  days,  when 
I  was  a  younger  man,  full  of  life,  finding  merri- 
ment in  these  mountains  and  dear  companion- 
ship with  brave  mountaineers  !  "  Times  change 
as  change  they  must,"  is  an  old  refrain  that 
comes  with  a  saddening  influence  as  I  write. 


140  THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS. 

I  notice  my  hair,  once  so  black  and  curly,  is 
white,  and  my  face  as  wrinkled  as  Skinny 
Benoit's.  The  place  is  changed— or  is  it  that 
my  change  changes  all  things  ?  I  wonder  which 
it  is. 

A  truce,  old  memories  !  you  blind  my  eyes  ! 
you  keep  from  my  sight  these  pencilled  pages, 
that  tell  of  the  return  of  Professor  Slithers. 

It  is  a  habit  of  mine  to  pencil,  from  day  to 
day,  the  things  that  give  laughter- food  in  Squid- 
ville  town.  Fun,  honest  fun,  does  not  care  a 
rap  with  whom  it  keeps  company,  tickling  poor 
and  rich  alike,  oftener,  methinks,  in  company 
with  the  poor  man.  What  light  it  brings  to 
his  life,  what  joy  to  his  poor  household,  authors, 
in  various  ages,  have  attested.  It  has  lit  his 
gloom,  swept  away  his  sorrow,  cured  many  a 
pain  and  ache  better  than  the  doctor. 

It  is  a  theory  of  mine  that  no  dyspeptic  can 
make  a  good  physician.  I  have  put  many  on 
the  road  to  recovery  by  telling  a  good  story. 

I  remember  how  James  Duquette  showed  signs 
of  betterment  after  hearing  of  Slithers*  antics. 
Maybe  some  others  would  like  to  hear  them. 
That's  my  only  excuse  for  copying.  "  Maybe," 
I  say,  but  I  know  not. 

I  was,  as  is  my  usual  custom,  sitting  in  Weeks' 


THE    RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  141 

hotel  one  evening,  just  as  the  stage-coach  rattled 
to  the  door,  when  to  my  astonishment  who 
pops  off  but  Slithers  in  a  brand-new  suit  of 
black,  crowned  with  an  elegant  high  hat.  His 
gloves  were  surely  kid,  while  in  one  hand  he 
carelessly  dallied  a  gold -headed  cane.  He  had 
baggage.  I  believe  it  was  this  fact  that 
gathered  the  crowd.  I  could  hear  Buttons  dis- 
tinctly say,  "  Slithers  is  on  the  ups, "  while 
Blind  Cagy  was  poking  fun  at  the  stay-at-home 
boys,  and  jocularly  pointing  to  the  big  trunk, 
on  which  was  written,  in  large  white  letters, 

"  PROFESSOR  SLITHERS.      MEDIUM. 
T.  O.  S." 

*fhese  last  letters  were  full  of  worry  to  the 
crowd.  Buttons,  who  had,  as  he  said,  "  a  long 
experience  in  tackling  all  kinds  of  lettering, 
straight,  crooked,  and  slanting,"  had  to  shake 
his  head  and  admit  that  "  a-ciphering  out 
T.  O.  S.  was  too  much  for  a  common  skull  like 
his,"  all  of  which  added  to  the  puzzle,  and 
stimulated  wonder.  The  professor  was  not  un- 
mindful of  this  as  he  stepped  on  the  hotel 
piazza,  shaking  the  landlord's  hand  warmly,  and 
saluting  him  in  a  high-pitched  strain,  after  this 
way  :  "  Weeks,  my  bucolic  old  friend,  facile 


142  THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS. 

princeps  among  the  stomach-ticklers  of  the 
Adirondacks,  a  thing  of  beauty,  a  joy  to  see — 
yes,  Weeks,  behold  your  peripatetic  Slithers,  now 
a  comforter  of  humanity  by  occultism  —  yes, 
Slithers,  T.  O.  S."  Emphasis  dwelling  long  on 
these  letters,  aided  by  a  rolling  of  his  eyes, 
deeper  still  made  the  mystery. 

"  There  be  something  unnatural,"  said  Sal 
Purdy,  "  in  these  same  letters;  they're  not 
mortal."  The  trunk  was  soon  out  of  sight, 
stored  in  a  room,  and  the  curiosity-crowd  went 
its  way,  having  a  new  nut  to  crack. 

Squidville  was  in  need  of  gossip,  and  the 
strange  letters  came  as  a  shower  after  a  long 
drouth,  or  as  a  thaw  after  a  long  frost-spell. 
Tongues  were  loosened  and  discussion  became  a 
pleasure.  I  was  appealed  to,  as  a  man  of  learn- 
ing, to  solve  a  mystery  that  had  been  called 
the  "  dark  secret  "  by  the  genial  Pere  Monnier. 
I  but  added  to  the  puzzle. 

Slithers  was  not  unmindful  of  public  excite- 
ment; it  was  an  excellent  advertisement,  and  he 
utilized  it  in  a  way  which,  to  use  one  of  our 
phrases,  "  hurried  the  grist  to  his  mill." 

Hiring  the  school-house,  he  billed  the  town, 
discarding  the  old-fashioned  way  of  "  making 


THE    RETURN    OF    CORKEY    SLITHERS.  143 

announcers  by  bell-ringing."     These  bills  showed 
the    cunning   of   the    professor,  and   read: 

"T.    O.    S. 

SLITHERS  ! 
THE  ONLY   SLITHERS 
MEDIUMISTIC  OCCULTIC  SLITHERS! 
—  :  UNRIVALLED    SLITHERS!:  — 

PSYCHOLOGICAL    SLITHERS  ! 
W  One  and  All  Invited!"^ 

Price,   10  cents, 
N.  B. — Rapping  Phenomena  Later. 

T.    O.    S." 

The  school-house  was  unable  to  contain  all 
those  who  were  drawn  in  the  hope  that  the 
mystic  letters  might  be  expounded.  Slithers  was 
not  to  be  so  easily  caught.  As  he  used  to  say 
in  former  years,  "  He  was  a  man  that  never 
threw  away  a  good  thing."  A  taking  adver- 
tisement is  not  to  be  despised.  The  lecture 
was  on  "  Planchette,  the  Despair  of  Science," 
and  was  as  mystic  to  his  hearers  as  were  the 
letters.  I  quote  Cagy's  criticism,  which,  if  not 
as  elegant  as  that  of  the  professional  reviewer's, 
was  more  to  the  point: 


144  THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS. 

"  You  might  as  well  follow  a  loon  in  the 
water  as  Slithers,  or  a  fox  on  foot.  He  may 
understand  himself,  but  if  he  does  he'll  soon 
stew  out  his  skull." 

It  is  an  opinion  of  mine  that  the  more  mys- 
tic is  humbuggery  the  more  certain  will  it  be 
to  succeed.  Although  in  public  we  laugh  at 
the  bogies  of  our  children,  to  please  society, 
yet  in  private  we  are  children  hushed  to  sleep 
with  the  same  bogies.  Slithers,  give  him  his 
due,  knew  the  animal  man,  and  gave  him  the 
desired  medicine. 

It  had  its  contemplated  effect,  which  was  to 
draw  the  crowd. 

Seeing  things  go  his  way,  he  hired  a  house, 
hung  out  his  sign,  and  boldly  proclaimed  that 
he  would  give  nightly  seances  wherein  "  rap- 
ping, table-tipping  phenomena,  virtual  manifesta- 
tions, grandmother  testimony,  future-laid-bare, 
and  similar  occurrences  of  the  most  momentous 
and  startling  nature  would  be  produced  by  the 
magic  wand  of 

"  Yours   truly, 
"  CORKEY  SLITHERS,  T.  O.  S." 

This  sign  was  noticed  in  a  long  editorial 
article  in  the  Porcupine  Pioneer,  whose  editor, 


THE    RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  145 

Joel  Spratt,  was  a  Methodist  deacon  and  a  bitter 
foe  of  Spiritualism.  With  this  editorial  Slithers' 
fame  swept  the  adjacent  towns,  bringing  him 
investigators  and  their  dollars — that  were  more 
to  his  taste.  Joel,  in  his  sledge-hammer  way, 
contended  that  if  ' '  a  mortal  wayfarer  was  to  cast 
off  the  slough  and  put  on  immortality,  setting 
out  straight  forward  for  mansions  of  eternal  per- 
petuity and  bliss,  he  would  neither  want  to  come 
to  the  mortal,  nor,  no  matter  how  closely  he 
might  hug  that  same  fool-idea,  he  couldn't  get 
here,  for  no  angel  would  let  him  pass."  "  If," 
continued  the  editorial,  "  the  same  fellow  went 
off  into  eternal  perdition,  or  in  other  words  to 
Sheol,  he  would  have  to  stay  there  and  make 
the  most  of  it.  Men  might  be  bribed,  but 
Satan — never. ' ' 

This  last  word  was  in  large  capitals,  and  was, 
in  the  Porcupine  office,  supposed  to  be  the 
clinch  "  to  the  powerfullest  bit  of  writing  that 
Joel  ever  greased  paper  with." 

Slithers,  confident  of  his  attraction,  called  the 
editorial  "  buggy,"  and  thus,  by  the  dexterous 
use  of  a  well-known  word,  took  the  wind  from 
Joel's  sails.  He  even  went  further,  and  invited 
the  sceptic  deacon  to  "  come  and  eat  his 
words  in  the  presence  of  ocular  demonstration." 


146  THE  RETURN   OF  CORKEY   SLITHERS. 

Squidville  loved  dearly  a  row,  and,  seeing  a 
chance  lost  through  the  deacon's  cowardice,  was 
not  slow  to  applaud  the  professor,  a  sure  way 
of  making  the  deacon  feel  its  grievance. 

So  things  went,  adding  fame  and  money  to 
Slithers.  But  he  was  ambitious,  and,  like  many 
another,  to  ambition  he  succumbed. 

Not  content  with  worsting  the  Porcupine,  he 
challenged  me  to  give  testimony  to  "  the  truth 
of  his  manifestations."  It  will  be  said  of  me, 
I  trust,  that  I  covet  no  man's  back  seat.  Be- 
sides, in  those  days,  I  was  as  ready  for  a  fray 
as  any  man  in  the  mountains. 

I  had,  if  I  write  it  myself,  and  without  ego- 
tism, an  ordinary  amount  of  strong  common- 
sense  always  at  my  disposal. 

Now  to  let  Corkey  know  that  I  was  hostile 
to  him  would  have  been  doubly  arming  him, 
and  no  adversary  is  entitled  to  more  than  is  his 
due,  so  I  wrote  over  my  signature  a  card  to 
the  Pioneer,  with  Joel's  warm  connivance,  father- 
ing the  theories  of  Mr.  Corkey,  and  demanding 
that  he  may  not  be  condemned  until  his  case 
was,  as  we  put  it,  "  sat  upon." 

This  was  a  "  pleasant  surrender,"  said  the 
professor,  who  was  not  slow  to  send  me,  hastily, 
the  following  note: 


THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  147 

"  Hunter's  Paradise, 

"  Wednesday. 
"DEAR  DOCTOR: 

"  Quid  pro  quo.  You  are  respectfully  invited  to  my 
seance  to-night,  which  begins  at  nine,  and  is  under  the 
control  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

'  Sweet  voices  will  speak  to  thee 

From  out  the  other  shore — 
Sweet  voices  will  speak  to  thee 
And  tell  of  days  of  yore.' 

"  CORKEY  SLITHERS,  T.  O.  S." 

I  persuaded  a  few  friends  to  join  me,  among 
them,  by  hard  work,  Joel  Spratt.  Jim  Weeks, 
as  he  always  is,  was  willing  to  go  where  a  bit 
of  fun  might  be  started.  As  the  night  was 
cold,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  wear  my  big 
buffalo-coat,  whose  pockets  were,  as  well  befits 
a  country  doctor's,  capacious.  Keeping  my  own 
mind,  I  slipped  into  one  of  them  what  I  had 
long  planned  should  be  used  to  test  Corkey's 
marvels. 

We  quietly  sauntered  down  the  street,  calling 
at  the  post-office  to  take  Buttons,  whose  laugh- 
ing fellowship  was  much  in  a  crowd. 

The  professor  was  located  in  one  of  the  ordi- 
nary log  houses. 

He  had,  with  an  eye  to  business,  decorated 
the  homely  abode  with  bunting,  nailed  a  flag 


148  THE    RETURN    OF    CORKEY    SLITHERS. 

with  the  mystic  T.  O.  S.  to  the  chimney,  while 
bills  hanging  from  the  door  told  of  him  as 
"  the  bright  particular  star  in  the  firmament  of 
occultic  wisdom,  the  Stanley  in  the  field  of  psy- 
chology." 

Corkey  was  there  to  meet  and  invite  us  "to 
the  most  rigorous  investigation,  in  order  that  we 
should  return  to  our  homes  with  our  precon- 
ceived vulgar  notions  and  deceits  fully  eradi- 
cated." "  You  are  free,  gentlemen,"  he  con- 
tinued. "In  fact,  I  invite  the  most  thorough 
scientific  researches.  Scoffers,"  casting  a  wither- 
ing eye  on  Spratt,  "  shall  pensively  return  to 
their  homes  to-night,  muttering,  as  they  go,  the 
imperishable  thought  of  William  Shakespeare, 
'  What  fools  we  mortals  be  !  ' 

The  inside  was  tastefully  decorated,  for  our 
parts,  with  pictures  that  the  professor  claimed 
were  the  work  of  the  spirits,  who,  in  their  leisure 
moments,  had  given  their  time  to  ornament  the 
chapel  of  their  votary. 

The  house  was  divided  into  two  apartments  : 
one  for  receiving  visitors,  containing  chairs,  a 
table  strewn  with  correspondence,  a  writing-desk, 
where  the  professor,  wheeling  in  his  chair,  trans- 
acted, as  he  termed  it,  "  his  multifarious  busi- 
ness." His  desk  was  ornamented  by  a  bust  of 


THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY    SLITHERS.  149 

Benjamin  Franklin,  the  presiding  deity  of  the 
place. 

Corkey  was  on  the  most  intimate  terms  with 
the  philosopher,  as  was  evidenced  by  his  address- 
ing him  :  "  Benny,  say  out  your  say,  old  boy," 
or,  "  Governor,  do  your  duty."  Let  it  be 
written,  also,  that  the  professor  had  no  fear  in 
the  presence  of  the  mightiest  of  our  race. 
Alexander  the  Great,  Hannibal,  Pompey,  Napo- 
leon, Wellington,  and  Grant  came  at  his  sweet 
will  and  conversed  on  the  most  trivial  things, 
in  the  most  peculiar  way.  On  one  occasion  the 
victor  of  Waterloo  was  known  to  give  valuable 
hints  on  hop-raising.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
Wellington  became  a  general  favorite,  from  his 
kindly  interest  in  the  people  of  Squidville. 

It  was,  as  Slithers  well  put  it,  "a  wonderful 
change  in  spirit-land  that  made  a  warrior  bold 
and  brave  become  a  man  of  peace  and  betake 
himself  to  the  study  of  hops."  That  he  had 
made  no  ordinary  progress,  was  well  shown  by 
his  practical  hints  about  manuring  the  vines, 
cultivating  between  the  rows,  and  spraying  them 
often. 

The  other  room  was  small,  and  was  used 
for  sittings.  The  little  window  that  lit  it  was 
boarded  up  in  such  a  way  that  not  a  glimmer  of 


150  THE    RETURN    OF    CORKEY    SLITHERS. 

light  was  possible.  In  this  room  was  a  plain  deal 
table  about  twelve  feet  long,  and  known  as  the 
"seance-table."  Rough,  backless  seats  ran  along 
this  table  for  the  investigators  who  were  satis- 
fied with  rapping,  table-tapping,  and,  to  use  the 
language  of  the  professor,  "  kindred  phenomena." 

In  this  room  "  ponderable  bodies  without 
appreciable  agency  in  the  presence  of  Corkey 
Slithers  were  to  be  moved."  For  the  more 
sceptical  there  was  a  cabinet  in  one  corner, 
where  material  manifestations  were  given,  where 
the  "  disembodied  spirits  put  on  the  corporeal 
for  better  identification,  and  came  to  breathe  to 
their  living  dear  ones  messages  of  hope  and 
guarantees  of  immortality."  Another  article  in 
this  room,  that  played  an  important  part,  was 
an  automaton  music-box. 

Corkey  held  that  "  spirits  were  extremely  sus- 
ceptible to  music,  that  they  took  to  it  as  a  duck 
to  water,  that  it  was  in  fact  their  element." 
Declaring  himself  "  the  concatenation  of  medium- 
istic  powers,"  being  a  musical,  writing,  speak- 
ing, drawing,  and  healing  medium,  he  was  duly 
qualified  to  make  this  announcement. 

The  entrance-fee  to  this  mystic  shrine  was  the 
sum  of  one  dollar,  prepaid,  the  rest  of  the  house 
"  being  free  at  a  quarter  prepaid." 


THE   RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  151 

"  Let  us  go  the  apple-core  at  once,  Slithers," 
said  Buttons,  handing  him  a  dollar,  followed  by 
our  party  with  an  alacrity  that  brought  a  sparkle 
to  his  eyes. 

"  That  is  true  student-form,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor. "It  is  readily  seen  you  are  the  type  of 
investigators  welcomed  by  every  teacher  of  oc- 
cultic  science  who  yearns  to  conquer  an  empire 
for  his  new  art.  Gentlemen,  be  seated  within. 
The  benches  will  accommodate  your  party  very 
easily.  I  do  not  apologize  for  the  poor  furni- 
ture, as  spirits,  free,  untrammelled  from  flesh- 
desires,  no  longer  hunger  for  the  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt.  I  believe  the  deacon  may  accuse  me 
of  being  biblical.  I  am  proud  to  own  that 
that  book  is  at  my  fingers'  ends,  as  is  most 
books."  Here  he  coughed,  and  waited  for  our 
praise.  Seeing  that  his  bait  was  not  a  lure, 
he  continued: 

"  Gentlemen,  to  business.  Honest  investiga- 
tors, in  the  name  of  Benjamin  Franklin  I  bid 
you  welcome,  and  shall  give  every  opportunity 
that  honesty  can  ask  for  a  free  and  full  inves- 
tigation. Gentlemen,  there  are  conditions  for  a 
seance  that  the  medium  must  demand.  Elec- 
tricity requires  wires  to  give  the  distant  message, 
seed  darkness  to  germinate,  sunlight  to  grow. 


152  THE    RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS. 

Nature  has  her  conditions,  and  only  when  these 
are  fulfilled  does  she  deign  to  unfold  herself. 
Am  I  distinctly  and  pertinently  understood?" 
Noting  that  no  one  rose  to  offer  comment,  he 
continued : 

"  Darkness  is  a  necessary  condition  for  physi- 
cal manifestations,  and  I  assume  and  insist  upon 
that  condition.  That  is  all.  You  are  free, 
before  the  seance,  to  poke  into  every  hole  and 
corner,  that  you  may  satisfy  yourself  of  the 
genuineness  of  the  seance  you  are  about  to 
witness.  Buttons,  bring  in  a  lamp.  Deacon, 
leave  nothing  in  this  chamber  untouched.  You 
hold  the  negative  of  my  affirmative,  and  hence 
it  is  your  duty  to  know  that  there  can  be  no 
room  for  trickery. ' ' 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Buttons  remarked 
to  me  that  the  nail  of  the  little  finger  of  the 
professor's  right  hand  was  "  uncommonly  long 
and  pointed."  I  made  a  mental  registry,  and, 
with  a  sharp  shot  of  my  eyes,  verified  it.  The 
search  of  the  deacon  revealed  nothing  that  might 
assist  in  roguery.  We  were  ready,  and,  joined 
by  a  few  irritable-looking  ladies,  sat  around  the 
table  in  utter  darkness,  hands  touching,  hearts 
beating,  those  of  the  women  being  audible, 
waiting  a  sign.  The  spirits  were,  to  use  Corkey's 


THE    RETURN    OF  CORKEY    SLITHERS.  153 

words,  "  unable  to  make  connection"  for  a  long 
time.  It  seemed  to  me  hours.  During  this  sit- 
ting I  had  this  thought,  which  afterwards  was 
pencilled  in  my  diary:  "  Solitary  confinement  is 
odious  to  humanity."  To  rouse  the  spirits  the 
professor  resorted  to  his  music-box,  grinding 
out  "  Sweet  Marie,"  and  this  failing  proposed 
that  the  company  should  join  in  song,  leading 
off  with  "  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee."  This 
hymn  exhausted  his  supply,  but  the  singing  of 
"  Marching  Through  Georgia"  and  "  Suwanec 
River"  was  kept  up  by  the  lusty  throat  of 
William  Buttons. 

Finally  there  was  a  jerk  at  the  table.  With 
it  song  ceased  and  a  dead  silence  pervaded  the 
room.  This  silence  was  broken  by  the  low 
moan  of  one  of  the  ladies,  who  swayed  to  and 
fro,  giving  a  motion  to  the  table,  and  exciting 
her  companion  to  such  a  state  that  she  saw 
stars  dancing  over  my  head,  and  heard  voices 
giving  messages.  Her  excitement  and  utterances 
had  a  nervous  effect  on  the  deacon,  who  began 
to  sway  and  mutter.  I  was  as  cool  as  a  cucum- 
ber, while  Buttons,  who  sat  by  ray  right,  and 
whose  hands  touched  mine,  was  equally  cool 
claiming  that  the  stars  "  couldn't  be  over  my 
skull,  or  his  eyes  would  twig  them  in  a  jiffy." 


154  THE   RETURN    OF   CORKEY    SLITHERS. 

Soon  there  was  a  faint  rapping — rather  scratch- 
ing— on  the  table.  "  If  you  are  a  spirit  give 
three  raps,"  said  the  professor,  who  had  left 
the  table.  The  raps  came.  "  Who  are  you  ? 
Let  me  run  over  the  alphabet." 

This  was  done,  and  Percy  Jenkins'  name 
spelled  out.  We  all  knew  Percy  as  a  big- 
hearted  fellow,  who  hadn't  much  here,  and  we 
were  anxious  to  hear  how  he  thrived  on  the 
other  side. 

"  Ask  him,  Slithers,"  said  Buttons,  "  how 
does  he  like  his  new  job,  or  if  he  is  working  at 
all.  You  know  he  wasn't  much  of  a  hand  over 
here." 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  one  of  the  ladies 
yelled,  "  There  he  is  ! — by  the  side  of  Deacon 
Spratt  ! — circling  round  and  round  like  a  butter- 
fly !" 

Sure  enough,  there  he  was,  staggering  even 
Buttons,  who  could  not  but  say,  "  This  beats 
the  devil  !  " 

It  was  then  that  I  carefully  drew  my  syringe 
from  my  big  pocket,  charged  as  it  was  with 
burning  chemicals,  and  watched  my  opportunity. 
It  was  not  long  in  coming.  Suddenly  a  cold 
hand  touched  my  ear,  and  a  luminous  face 
peered  into  mine.  "  Now  or  never,"  said  I 


THE   RETURN    OF   CORKEY   SLITHERS.  155 

as  I  squirted  the  syringe's  contents  into  the 
vanishing  face. 

There  was  a  wild,  agonized  yell,  and  a  fall- 
ing as  if  the  cabinet  was  tumbling  down. 

I  jumped  from  my  seat,  ran  for  the  lamp, 
and  threw  its  light  on  the  suspected  corner. 
There,  with  his  hands  pressed  heavily  to  his 
face,  screaming  with  pain,  crouched  Corkey 
Slithers  in  a  long,  white  nightshirt,  "decorated," 
as  Buttons  said,  "  for  the  event." 

Piteously  he  begged  for  mercy,  a  little  oint- 
ment to  ease  the  pain,  and  a  few  hours  to 
leave  town  forever — all  of  which  I  readily  granted 
in  memory  of  other  days  when  he  was  a  better 
man. 

*  "  Well,  I  never  thought  that  of  Corkey," 
said  Buttons.  "  I  know  now  who  done  the 
rapping;  that  nail  of  his  ain't  long  for  nothing." 

"  Your  humbuggery  has  cost  you  dearly," 
said  the  deacon.  "  Yes;  humbuggery,  Corkey  ! 
Yes  !  you  are  a  man  of  sin,  and  I  beseech 
you  to  repent,  for  you  know  not  when  the 
hand  of  the  Lord  will  smite  you  in  His  wrath." 

"  True  for  you,"  said  Buttons.  "  This,  kind 
of  capering  can  bring  no  good." 

Corkey  sobbed  like  a  whipped  child,  and  offered 
to  give  up  our  money. 


156  THE   RETURN   OF   CORKEY    SLITHERS. 

"  Come,  boys,"  said  I,  "  leave  him  to  his 
own  thoughts.  And  as  to  the  money — you  will 
need  it,  Corkey,  to  carry  you  far  away  from 
Squidville — the  farther  the  better." 

"  Honesty  is  the  best  policy,"  said  the  dea- 
con as  we  wended  our  way  home. 

Buttons,  always  fighting  for  the  under  dog,  in 
bidding  us  good-night,  said,  "  Poor,  burned 
Corkey  !  How  will  he  get  to  the  railway  ?  And 
if  he's  around  when  folks  get  up  they'll  murder 
him.  It's  only  last  Sunday  I  heard  Pere  Monnier 
say,  '  Lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  weak  and 
fallen.'  I — I  have  half  a  mind  to  hitch  up  and 
take  him  to  safety." 

Slithers  by  the  morning  had  vanished,  leaving 
masks,  headgear,  crowns  of  every  description,  and 
a  brass  sign  advertising  "  Corkey  Slithers  — 
Teacher  of  Occultic  Science,"  to  pay  his  board- 
bill. 


AN    OLD    MUSICIAN.  157 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

AN  OLD   MUSICIAN. 

IT  was  his  way,  Pere  Monnier's  way,  to  pay 
an  annual  visit  to  Montreal.  As  he  used  to 
say,  "  A  man  should  keep  in  touch  with  civil- 
ization, if  it  was  only  for  a  few  days  every 
twelvemonth." 

Old  Anna,  the  good  priest's  housekeeper, 
thought  differently,  and  was  often  heard  to  say, 
even  in  his  presence,  that  it  was  a  mad  rush  for 
old  and  half-backed  books  that  took  him  to  the 
city.  If  her  position  was  disputed,  as  it  was 
sure  to  be,  by  Napoleon,  the  man  servant,  she 
would  tap  her  old  carpet-slipper  quickly  on  the 
floor,  and,  turning  with  a  sarcastic  twist  from  his 
tantalizing  words,  poke  the  fire,  nodding  her 
head  and  muttering: 

"  Books,  ay,  books  !  If  he  hadn't  enough 
of  them  !  Books  !  You  cannot  stir  for  them  ! 
Picked  up  everywhere,  poking  on  his  knees  in 
every  old  store,  paying  his  good  money,  and 
carting  them  here  as  if  they  were  gold.  Books  ! 


158  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

Many's  the  one's  head  they  have  put  out  of 
kilter." 

The  pere's  only  response  to  such  tirades  from 
his  constant  friend  was  a  hearty  laugh,  the  lift- 
ing of  some  old  half-clad  tome,  and  shaking  it 
at  her.  She  feared  "  the  black  art  that  slept 
between  the  leaves,"  and  a  shake  was  enough 
to  silence  one  whose  policy  was,  "  It's  better  to 
be  quiet  if  your  noise  troubles  your  betters." 

Not  a  few  of  Pere  Monnier's  parishioners 
thought  as  Anna  did,  as  was  shown  by  the 
presents  they  brought  their  pastor.  If  they  were 
from  home  any  length  of  time,  they  were  sure 
to  return  with  some  book  or  other,  fished  from 
a  dust-heap  in  some  old  book-stall.  The  more 
worn  and  foxed  the  better  it  was  thought  to 
please  the  pere.  They  had  an  idea  that  books, 
like  wine,  grow  with  age.  They  grasped  a  truth. 
From  such  a  strange  way  of  increasing  his 
library  many  "queer  customers"  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder  :  Byron  a  helpmate  to  a  stray  copy 
of  Jeremy  Taylor;  the  Summa  of  St.  Thomas 
supporting  the  arch  scoffer  Voltaire  ;  rollicking 
Lever  in  his  shirt-sleeves  bending  over  Gury. 
Each  book,  strange  as  his  housing,  was  known  to 
the  pere,  who  had  a  tale  of  how  Le  Roy 
brought  this  raggy  fellow  as  a  New  Year's  gift, 


AN    OLD   MUSICIAN.  159 

or  how  Rosalie  found  that  giant  bursting  with 
syllogisms  modestly  sleeping  beneath  a  heap  of 
modern  romances  and  Montreal  dust.  He  was 
proud  of  his  books,  and  boasted  of  the  intui- 
tive taste  of  his  parishioners,  who  so  easily  dis- 
cerned, amid  lesser  lights,  the  sleeping  wizards 
of  the  olden  time. 

Whether  for  books,  or  to  rub  against  civiliza- 
tion for  a  few  days,  the  evidence  favoring  the 
former,  Pere  Monnier,  leaving  his  little  property 
in  the  safe  custody  of  Napoleon  and  Anna, 
had  gone  to  Montreal.  It  was  winter-time, 
to  him  the  most  pleasant  of  the  seasons.  The 
land  lay  white  in  snow.  The  bare  and  bold 
mountains  were  covered  with  the  same  soft  man- 
tlek  Trees  wove  around  their  nakedness  many 
a  fantastic  ice  design,  prettier  than  their  green 
summer  gown.  The  rivers  and  ponds  were  the 
scenes  of  skating-tournaments,  the  music,  the 
merry,  laughing  voices  of  the  young.  On  the 
roads  sleigh-bells  jingled,  while  the  light  and 
graceful  cutters,  bowing  to  each  other,  gave  the 
occupants  a  moment  of  banter. 

Holding  up  a  red  pocket-handkerchief,  by  the 
side  of  the  little  coal-box  station,  as  the  Mon- 
treal train  was  rounding  the  curve,  the  engine 
slackened  pace,  and  soon,  puffing  and  panting, 


160  AN    OLD   MUSICIAN. 

stopped  at  the  station.  Pere  Monnier,  with  a 
bow  to  the  conductor,  entered  the  car,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  his  Breviary.  Trie  scenery  along 
the  route,  for  the  most  part  picturesque,  was  so 
well  known  to  him  that  he  preferred  to  finish 
his  ' '  office ' '  rather  than  chat  with  old  friends 
and  evoke  old  memories.  Being  well  known,  he 
had  to  endure  what  that  entails — a  touch  on 
the  shoulder,  a  slight  tap  on  the  back,  a  warm 
hand-squeeze,  and  many  a  hearty  bon  jour. 
These  salutations  were  always  followed  by  the 
pere's  rapid  cross-examining  as  to  the  health, 
wealth,  gladness,  or  sorrow  of  the  family,  and 
they  not  infrequently  ended  by  whispering  into 
the  pere's  ear,  "  My  son  Johnny  [or,  "  My 
daughter  Eliza  "]  has  a  book  as  long  as  my  arm, 
and  as  thick  as  my  calf,  full  of  gosh  queer 
lettering  for  M.  le  Cure."  How  the  cross- 
examiner's  eyes  would  flash  as  his  mind  wan- 
dered to  his  library,  and  speculated  on  what 
shelf  could  he  find  room  for  the  latest  love- 
token  ! 

Soon  St.  Henri  was  passed,  and  the  pere, 
opening  his  little  grip,  put  away  his  Breviary, 
and  was  ready  when  the  porter  called  out, 
"  Montreal — Bonaventura  station  !  All  out  ! 
This  way,  sir  !" 


AN    OLD    MUSICIAN.  l6l 

In  another  moment  he  was  one  of  a  half-run- 
ning, eager  crowd,  peering  this  and  that  way, 
some  to  discover  friends,  others  as  if  in  a 
moment  they  could  tell  what  a  Canadian  city 
and  people  were  like.  Sleighs  were  ready,  and 
warm  furs  to  wrap,  and  furry  men  with  red  or 
black  toques  to  persuade,  argue,  threaten,  grab 
your  bag,  and  if  they  succeeded  in  seating  you 
in  their  sleigh  to  purr  like  a  cat,  mount  the 
dickey,  make  faces  at  their  beaten  rival,  sing- 
ing some  familiar  Canadian  ditty. 

But  Pere  Monnier  resisted  alike  persuasion, 
argument,  and  threat.  He  preferred  to  saunter 
slowly  through  the  streets.  Being  a  man  fond 
of  humankind,  and  with  but  few  opportunities 
of  contact  with  human  nature  of  a  type  differ- 
ent from  that  to  be  seen  in  his  own  little 
mountain  parish,  he  enjoyed  the  sight  of  the 
many  faces  to  be  met  upon  the  busy  thor- 
oughfares and  the  quiet  streets  of  the  great 
city.  It  was  not  only  books  that  he  gathered 
up  and  took  home  with  him  from  these  period- 
kal  visits,  but  recollections  of  faces,  and  char- 
acters, and  sayings  that  remained  fresh  ever 
after.  It  was  a  good  hour  from  the  midday 
meal,  and  in  that  time  his  sauntering  would 
bring  him  to  St.  Patrice,  where  a  hearty  greet- 


162  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

ing  was  sure  to  await  him.  He  had  not  gone 
far  when  his  eyes,  so  quick  when  sinners  or 
books  were  their  objects,  greeted  an  old  book- 
store and  curio-shop.  It  was  a  find,  and,  ex- 
plorer as  he  was,  he  would  enter  and  note  it 
on  his  map.  In  front  of  the  door  were  two 
rickety  deal  tables,  one  lacking  a  foot,  and  lean- 
ing so  heavily  to  the  maimed  side  that  the 
slightest  touch  gave  the  onlooker  an  awkward 
feeling  at  the  groundward  movement  of  its  con- 
tents. By  the  dexterous  use  of  a  string,  and  the 
keen  eye  of  the  bookseller,  the  falling  proved 
delusive,  and  many  a  passer-by  was  saved  an 
apology.  The  tables  were  covered  by  well- 
thumbed,  badly  written  stories  in  rough  paper 
covers,  with  a  few  coatless  religious  works  to 
keep  the  motley  throng  in  order.  The  inside 
corresponded  to  the  outside  in  pleasing  con- 
fusion. The  store  was  long  and  narrow,  and 
every  nook  was  ingeniously  utilized.  Shelf  after 
shelf  crept  up  the  wall,  bulging  full  of  worth 
and  trash  lovingly  hugging  each  other.  It  was 
a  strange  mingling  of  brain-children,  who  spat 
spleen  at  each  other  in  life,  standing  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  presenting  a  stiff  line  to  dust  and 
flies.  And  what  a  friendship  !  When  one  was 
taken,  how  lonely  and  sad  looked  his  compan- 


AN   OLD    MUSICIAN.  163 

ions,  and  how  quickly  they  closed  ranks  !  The 
floor  was  equally  interesting:  a  huge  clock  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  once  the  possession  of 
a  famous  French  beauty,  solemnly  ticking  time 
and  life  away;  an  armchair,  cracked,  squeaky, 
and  soiled,  whereon  the  chivalrous  Champlain 
once  sat;  a  sword,  good,  bright,  and  trusty,  of 
Maisonneuve;  a  little  silver  crucifix  of  the  gallant 
Brebeuf;  a  gold  medal  of  Marguerite  Bour- 
geoys;  a  cane  of  Montcalm;  Montgomery's  cap; 
ancient  china,  rare  dishes,  Japanese  ware,  Indian 
relics,  bits  of  rare-colored  carpets,  daggers, 
pistols,  long-barrelled  guns,  water-colored  daubs, 
engravings,  something  to  catch  civilized  and  sav- 
age, a  medley  of  climes  and  times,  history  that 
is"  mute. 

Amidst  these  sat,  or  walked,  the  old  book- 
seller, wise  and  witty,  genial  to  the  lovers  of 
things  artistic,  a  hater  of  pretensions  and  super- 
ficial book-knowledge.  He  was  of  an  old  school, 
and  would  not  sell  a  rare  book  to  a  dunce. 
He  read  a  face  as  easily  as  he  told  the  time 
of  his  clock.  No  one  was  importuned  to  buy, 
and  every  article  had  its  price  plainly  marked. 
That  price  was  honest,  and  no  amount  of  per- 
suasion could  change  it. 

"  Talk,  sir,  has  no   effect  on    my  prices;   they 


164  AN    OLD   MUSICIAN. 

are  honest,  sir — a  bare  living;  you  see,  I  have 
to  deal  in  all  things  to  do  it.  I  guarantee  that 
you  shall  find  your  purchase  what  it  was  bought 
for;  that  is  John  Thompson's  reputation;  it  was 
my  father's,  who  kept  sixty  years  in  Edinburgh, 
friend  of  Wally  Scott,  sir,  who  gave  him  that 
reputation." 

That  bit  of  personal  history  was  a  warning  to 
the  purchaser  to  buy  at  the  marked  price  or 
to  go  elsewhere.  To  the  genuine  book-lover 
what  hand  was  warmer,  whose  eyes  were  brighter, 
than  those  of  honest  John  Thompson  ?  He  lies 
in  Mount  Royal,  sleeping  these  many  years, 
but  how  plainly  his  figure  comes  to  me  as  I 
write.  I  see  the  lithe  and  supple  frame,  bent 
a  bit  by  age,  clad  in  the  loved  Scotch  tweed 
"  sent  from  hame  by  Brother  Jed,"  as  he  used 
to  say  with  a  long  Scotch  drawl  ;  the  talking, 
merry  blue  eyes  that  told  a  story  quicker  than 
the  tongue,  and  with  more  art;  the  domelike 
skull  well  thatched  by  long,  glossy  white  hair, 
fringing  his  tam-o'-shanter  cap.  It  was  love  at 
first  sight  between  the  warm-hearted  pere  and 
the  honest  Scotchman. 

"  Just  look  around  and  see  if  I  have  not 
something  that  you  need.  I  know  you  want 
no  help.  You'll  find  a  step-ladder  that  will 


AN    OLD    MUSICIAN.  165 

take  you  to  the  roof — a  little  shaky,  but  safe. 
A  bookman  like  you,  p£re,  needs  no  ladder. 
Christopher  North,  when  climbing  like  a  monkey 
from  one  book-shelf  to  another,  used  to  say  to 
my  father : 

"  '  Donald,  maun,  there's  nothing  hard  to 
mortals;  ay,  maun,  there's  something  in  that 
same  saying. 

A  breaking  of   words  to  win   the   pere's  heart. 

"  I  will  do  so,  and  I  warrant  if  I  want  a 
book  I  can  imitate  the  monkey-movements  of 
Christopher  North,"  rejoined  Pere  Monnier. 

"  As  I  think  of  it,"  said  the  bookseller,  "  I 
have  a  splendid  edition  of  Lactantius,  Oxford 
copy,  1684,  best  edition.  How  thoroughly  they 
made  books  in  those  days  !  Those  that  survive 
have,  as  Hazlitt  says,  '  the  pure,  silent  air  of 
immortality.'  Like  him,  I  hate  the  dust  and 
smoke  and  noise  of  modern  literature,  froth, 
puffery,  skim-milk,  waste  paper,  stuff  to  light 
the  morning  fires  with.  Yes,  sir,  but  Wally 
Scott,  Bobbie  Burns — ay,  even  Charlie  Dickens, 
that  they  hoot  nowadays  as  a  sentimentalist, 
will  live.  They  will  bury  your  realists:  little 
Nell  cannot  be  snuffed  out  by  every  tasteless 
brat  that  dirties  paper.  But  let  me  show  you 
Lactantius.  It  once  had  a  place  in  Sterne's 


l66  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

library;  strange,  is  it  not?  His  name  is  written 
on  the  fly-leaf;  yes,  yes,  Laurence  Sterne,  author 
of  "  Tristram  Shandy."  Who  writes  a  book  like 
that  nowadays  ?  Listen  to  your  little  men  criti- 
cising him ;  they  say  '  he  is  bound  to  die  ' — 
nonsense  ! — star-bombarding.  I  would  not  want 
to  see  one  of  those  mannikins  enter  my  store. 
Let  him  do  his  prating;  there  will  always  be 
some  one  to  need  stove-paper." 

The  old  bookman  laughed,  and  bent  over  his 
desk.  As  he  did  so  a  thin,  spare  figure  entered, 
wrapped  tightly  in  an  old  brown  cloak,  carrying 
a  little  package  carelessly  folded  in  an  old  news- 
paper. He  swept  his  large,  lustrous  almond  eyes 
on  every  nook  of  the  book-store,  and  then  with 
a  strange,  hurrying  step  and  startled  face  expres- 
sion, brushed  past  Pere  Monnier,  and  dropped 
gracefully  into  the  chair  of  Geoffrey  Champlain. 

"  Here,  pere,"  said  the  bookseller,  "  is  Lac- 
tantius;  see  Sterne's  handwriting  !  Take  a  seat 
and  examine  it.  I  want  to  see  what  I  can  do 
for  Count  Henry.  Poor  fellow  !  titles  don't 
amount  to  much  when  there  is  nothing  in  the 
pocketbook." 

These  last  words  were  whispered  in  the  pere's 
ear. 

Great   as   Pere    Monnier's   love  was   for  books, 


AN   OLD    MUSICIAN.  167 

it  was  greater  for  men.  He  merely  glanced  at 
the  Lactantius,  and  used  it  as  a  screen  to 
cover  his  real  thought,  which  was  a  growing 
interest  in  the  ill-clad  but  noble  occupant  of 
Champlain's  chair. 

"  Bon  jour,  Count  Henry  !  A  raw  day  for 
you  to  be  around.  I  have  not  sold  the  book, 
but  will;  it's  rare." 

"  That  is  sad  to  me,"  said  the  count,  bend- 
ing his  head,  his  long,  bony  fingers  playing  with 
the  package.  By  the  peculiar  emphasis  placed 
on  some  word  and  his  use  of  the  pronoun,  it 
was  easy  to  tell  that  he  was  a  foreigner  whose 
book  English  was  better  than  his  colloquial. 

'  I  do  so  wish  it  to  be  sold;  my  circumstance 
i*  so  poor,  and  the  Brunetaires  will  make  me 
to  pay  my  chamber  or  leave  it  to-day.  It  is 
so  sad  to  me,"  and  tears,  little  glassy  globules, 
pin-points,  came  to  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  ran 
into  a  furrow,  waited  for  comrades,  and  then, 
embracing,  sped  down  his  cheek. 

"  There  is  much  douleur  in  life,  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, but — "  and  with  an  innate  air  of  nobleness 
he  drew  his  old  cloak  closer  and  prepared  to 
withdraw.  He  bit  his  talk;  what  use  to  air 
sorrow  ?  No  man  cares  to  accept  another's  bur- 
den, and  listening  to  another's  ills  is  wearisome. 


1 68  AN   OLD   MUSICIAN. 

The  world's  salve,  like  patent  medicine,  is  for 
all  complaints.  Its  label  is  marked  "  Suffer." 
It  either  kills  or  cures  —  a  blessing  on  either 
hand. 

As  he  arose  his  shoes,  leaky,  giving  glimpses 
of  torn  stockings  wet  with  the  melting  snows, 
were  shuffled  backwards  to  hide  their  awkward- 
ness, while  the  parcel  was  drawn  beneath  the 
cloak,  and  the  startled  look  blotted  out  on 
Champlain's  chair  crept  into  the  eyes,  and  lit 
up  the  olive  wrinkles. 

"  How  much  is  this  book  ? "  asked  Pere 
Monnier,  holding  up  a  well-clad  tome. 

"  Peut-etre,"  murmured  the  count,  arresting 
his  footsteps. 

"  Sell  it  very  cheap,"  said  the  bookman, 
"  yes,  very  cheap,  and  glad  that  a  man  like  you 
will  get  it.  That's  a  handsome  copy,  sir — a 
bargain — an  ornament  to  a  library.  It  is  not 
one  of  my  books,  so  I  can  plead  and  show  it 
off.  Open  it.  Corneille,  the  great  Corneille. 
Life  by  Fontanelle.  Let  me  whisper  in  your 
ear  the  price." 

"  No  need,  Mr.  Thompson,  I'll  take  it  at  your 
value." 

"  Vraiment  ? "    uttered    the   count. 

"  Perhaps,"    said    the    bookseller,    "  the    count 


AN   OLD    MUSICIAN.  169 

might    find   in    you    a    purchaser  for  a   few  other 

rare    books.       Count,    this    is   a    Rev.    Mr.    

from  the  States.  I  was  so  busy  talking  of  one 
thing  or  another  that  I  forgot  to  ask  his  name, 
a  sure  sign  he  interested  old  Thompson." 

The    count   bowed,  saying: 

"  You  do  me  the  pleasure  to  acquaint.  I 
know  of  your  land;  it  is  beautiful,  full  of  in- 
telligence. But  the  books  of  it,  I  have  few. 
Circumstance,  monsieur,  is  very  afflicting  on  me." 

He  drew  out  the  parcel,  untied  it,  gazed  on 
his  last  treasures  with  eyes  charged  -with  the 
heart's  electricity.  Then  said: 

"  The   final  of    my  library.      Voil&,    monsieur," 
and    his   head    turned    away. 
^  "  Your  old  friend  Dante,"  said  the  bookseller. 

"  Out,  out,  monsieur.  I  loved  him  for  his 
pens6e,  and  souvenir  of  days  that  will  never, 
never  come  back  to  me.  While  I  could  keep 
him  I  did  not  feel  the  douleur  of  parting  with 
my  library,  yet  it  was  much  to  me;  but  the 
master  was  comfort — now  adieu,  monsieur,  you 
know  him  who  '  sovra  gli  altri  come  aquila  vola* 
Let  me  see  him  again.  You  will  be  careful  of 
him;  here  is  a  baize  to  cover  him." 

"  Count,"  remarked  the  bookman,  "  the  gen- 
tleman may  not  wish  to  buy." 


170  AN    OLD   MUSICIAN. 

"  Pardon,  pardon,"  he  answered,  tapping  his 
forehead;  "  my  emotion  makes  me  forget.  Par- 
don, monsieur;  circumstance  is  sad  to  me." 

"  I  will  buy,"  said  Pere  Monnier.  "  Make 
the  price,  Mr.  Thompson." 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  the  bookman,  handing 
the  pere  a  piece  of  paper. 

"Very,  very  cheap,"  said  the  pere.  "  Here 
is  the  money." 

"  Give   it   to   the  count,"  said  the    bookseller. 

"  Merci !  merci !  monsieur,"  said  the  count; 
"you  have  done  me  much  to-day;  my  heart  is 
full.  Bon  jour." 

"Strange  man,"  said  the  bookseller  —  "a 
man  with  a  history.  Poverty  is  a  leveller,  no 
doubt  of  that,  but  as  Bobbie  Burns  says  some- 
where :  '  Nature  wrote  the  man  on  every  feature. ' 
Poverty  degrades  rogues,  not  men.  The  count 
—  well,  I  must  look  him  up;  his  books  sold, 
means  near  the  end.  I  have  little  to  spare, 
but  it's  not  Thompson  to  see  such  a  man  beg- 
ging. Begging,  did  I  say  ?  Nonsense  !  The 
count  beg  ?  He  couldn't  do  it.  I  must  look 
him  up.  Men  of  his  stamp  die  in  garrets 
without  a  whimper;  it's  the  curs  that  give 
tongue. ' ' 

His  moralizing  was  cut  short  by  Pere  Monnier's 


AN   OLD   MUSICIAN.  I? I 

request    to    tie    up    the    books,    and    keep   them 
until  he    should    call. 

"  All  right,  reverend,"  was  the  blithe  reply. 
The  pere  sallied  forth;  the  bookman  eased  his 
mind  with  a  song  of  home: 

"  Symon  Brodie  had  a  cow. 

The  cow  was  lost,  and  he  could  na  find  her ; 
When  he  had  done  what  man  could  do 
The  cow  cam  hame,  and  her  tail  behind  her." 

He    whistled    the    chorus,     waiting    for    a     new 
customer. 

Pere  Monnier's  brisk  walking  soon  brought 
him  in  sight  of  the  count  standing  in  front  of 
a  baker's  shop,  gleeful  as  a  child,  snuffing  the 
delicious  smells.  He  could  see  him  draw  out 
ther  purse  and  fumble  for  a  coin,  make  a  mo- 
tion as  if  to  go,  then  remain  still.  Were  the 
future  and  the  Brunetaires  ominously  shaping 
themselves  in  his  mind  ?  Hunger  and  honesty 
gnawed  him.  His  first  duty  was  to  pay  the 
irascible  Madame  Brunetaire.  So  he  moved  on, 
closely  followed  by  the  pere.  He  seemed  in 
no  great  hurry;  his  homeward  journey  became 
a  strange  roundabout  by  alleys  and  small  streets. 
Shabbiness  avoids  highways  and  glare.  At  length 
he  turned  into  a  small  street,  quickened  his  pace, 
until  in  front  of  a  church  door  he  suddenly 


172  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

stopped,  and,  leaning  against  the  railing,  listened 
to  Gounod's  Ave  Maria  stealing  through  the 
aisles,  melting  into  the  snowflakes  around  him. 
As  the  music  died  away  he  entered  the  church, 
wending  his  way  slowly,  his  head  down,  his 
heart  oppressed  by  memories,  and  knelt  in  front 
of  a  little  altar  by  a  swinging  red  lamp.  Aris- 
ing in  a  few  minutes,  he  piteously  looked  in 
the  direction  of  the  choir,  as  if  begging  for 
music.  None  came,  save  the  loose  beat  of  his 
old  shoes  on  the  wooden  floor.  Down  the  aisle 
and  out,  the  wild  look  blotted  from  his  eyes, 
the  old  cloak  a  little  loose,  and  the  old  shoes 
more  shown. 

"Bless  me!"  said  the  pere,  "this  is  St. 
Patrice;  but  it  is  long  after  the  dinner-hour, 
and  I'm  bound  to  wind  this  matter  up.  It 
will  be  a  tale  worth  telling  my  good  friend,  and 
ample  apology  for  an  old  trick  of  mine,  dinner- 
missing.  ' ' 

The  count  had  turned  a  corner,  and  was  now 
in  a  shabby,  dirty  part  of  Lagauchetiere  Street. 
A  few  steps,  he  entered  an  open  door  decay- 
ing on  its  hinges,  mounted  a  staircase  lurched 
many  feet  from  the  wall,  its  natural  support, 
and  was  soon  lost  to  view.  Pere  Monnier  had 
his  foot  on  the  first  step  when  a  shrill,  shrieking 


AN   OLD   MUSICIAN.  173 

voice  from  a  little  wrinkled  mouth  shouted  in 
Quebecquois  French : 

"  Monsieur  the  Count  !  Come  down  at  once, 
and  pay  or  get  !  That's  my  terms." 

All  of  the  commander's  person  visible  at  the 
door  was  a  bit  of  slippered  foot,  a  wrinkled 
mouth,  a  nose,  and  two  gray  eyes,  cunning  as 
a  fox's.  Seeing  her  mistake,  she  slammed  the 
scarcely  open  door,  shutting  shriek  and  beauty 
from  the  well-pleased  pere.  It  was  Madame 
Brunetaire  on  her  most  orderly  parade.  Her 
shriek  brought  the  count  from  his  seclusion.  It 
was  a  tocsin  blast  that  no  inmate  could  scorn. 
Bad  as  it  was,  the  presence  of  the  commander, 
which  followed  its  disloyalty,  was  worse.  Of 
tw<5  evils  the  count  chose  the  lesser.  Purse  in 
hand,  jingling  the  dollars,  sweetest  music  to 
soothe  madame,  music  that  would  wreathe  her 
shattered  homeliness  with  sunny  smiles,  he  left 
the  room  and  met  Pere  Monnier  on  the  stair. 
The  startled  look  bounded  to  his  eyes. 

"Does  monsieur  regret  his  bargain?"  he 
falteringly  asked. 

"  By  no  means,  count;  I  just  came  to  visit," 
was  heartily  delivered  by  the  pere.  "  I  take  an 
interest  in  every  man,  much  more  in  a  country- 
man and  scholar." 


174  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Cure,  you  do  me  the  grand 
honor,  but  I  have  it  not  in  my  power  to  re- 
ceive you.  Circumstance  is  very,  very  sad  to 
me.  I  cannot  ask  you  to  my  chamber — it  is 
most  miserable;  but  I  have  the  grand  confi- 
dence that  I  will  be  better,  monsieur;  circum- 
stances will  not  always  be  cruel  to  me.  It  is 
to  me  the  one  grand  consolation  that  the 
deepest  misery  has  an  end.  Human  douleur 
goes  away  with  life.  Death  will  cure  me. 
Hear,  monsieur,  a  line  from  my  Corneille:  lje 
te  I'avoue,  mon  ami !  mon  mat  est  incurable. ' 
Pardon  !  Madame  calls;  she  will  come.  Pardon  ! 
she  will  come." 

"  Let  her,"  said  the  pere,  laughing;  "  a 
woman  that  can  let  such  a  shriek  is  worthy 
of  study." 

"  I  fear  she  will  come.  Pardon  !  monsieur," 
muttered  the  count. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  pere,  "  I  have  a  little 
home,  a  poor  but  cosey  little  church,  warm- 
hearted parishioners,  books  in  all  tongues  and 
dresses.  I  want  an  organist.  You  are  a  musi- 
cian. Why  not  come  home  with  me  and  be  a 
friend  and  companion,  read  your  Dante,  and  be 
as  happy  as  you  can  ?  I  will  settle  with  madame. 
You  keep  your  little  store.  I  don't  want  to 


AN    OLD    MUSICIAN.  175 

recommend  myself,  but  I  will  say  that  you  will 
not  find  me  unkind  or  harsh.  Say  yes." 

The  count  hesitated.  Madame's  voice  swept 
the  stair,  a  creaking  door  told  of  her  coming. 

"  Say  yes,"  said  the  pere;  "  the  train  leaves 
in  an  hour. 

"  Monsieur,  je  dis,"  rose  the  madame's  voice. 

"  Say  yes,"    repeated  the   pere. 

Tears  filled  the  count's  eyes,  and  stole  down 
bis  cheeks.  He  shook  his  head;  Pere  Monnier 
read  yes. 

"  Je  dis,"    said   madame. 

"  Out,  out,"   laughingly   retorted    the   pere. 


We  are  the  victims  of  periodical  fads.  A 
few  years  ago  it  was  haste  to  the  seashore  to 
find  health,  bathe  in  the  breakers  and  gain 
strength.  All  that  has  changed.  Newspapers — 
and  are  not  they  omnipotent  ? — declare  that  the 
seashore  is  unhealthy.  Microbes  hold  their  annual 
convention  by  the  loud,  roaring  sea;  colored 
folk  find  religion  by  its  surf,  and  jaunty  Jews 
there  elbow  too  closely  mushroom  respectability. 
All  things  change,  as  change  they  must — so  goes 
the  song;  the  popular  tune  is,  Heigh-ho  to  the 
mountains.  Respectability  there  has  full  length 


176  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

to  swing  its  train,  and,  what  is  more  gratifying, 
unbridled  opportunity  to  waste  its  pocketbook. 
Inducements  as  these  have  crowded  our  moun- 
tains with  a  peculiar  class  of  aristocrats,  who 
quite  naturally  treat  the  inhabitants  as  bar- 
barians. These  Greeks,  sallow  and  gaunt  for 
the  most  part,  Sangrado  types,  swarm  on  the 
lakes  by  day,  reading  cheap  realism  in  yellow 
covers,  by  night  singing  sentimental  songs  to  the 
tattered  notes  of  a  loose-stringed  guitar.  We 
mountaineers  laugh  a  mental  laugh,  the  face  as 
serious  as  that  of  a  bishop  taking  his  see,  use  the 
waste  for  many  a  needful  thing,  hoist  ropes,  spread 
tents  gladly  for  these  summer  circuses.  I  wrote 
gladly;  I  was  going  to  explain,  but  let  the  word 
stand  while  I  add,  if  the  pay-car  accompanies 
each  show.  That  is  mercenary,  you  say;  tell  it 
to  the  mountaineer,  and,  like  the  traditional  Celt, 
he  will  respond  by  asking,  "  Don't  you  think, 
sir,  our  company's  worth  something?"  On  your 
answer  will  depend  whether  you  are  a  Greek  or 
brother  barbarian.  Pere  Monnier  lived  in  the 
mountains,  but  in  a  secret  nook  unknown  to  the 
Greeks.  There  was  no  noise  in  the  woods  save 
that  of  pleasantry,  singing  birds,  chattering  squir- 
rels, mumbling  coons,  with  not  unfrequently  the 
soft  musical  bleat  of  the  doe  calling  her  fawns 


AN   OLD    MUSICIAN.  177 

to  covert  and  rest.  The  brooks  and  lakes  were 
well  stocked  with  fish,  and  their  banks  with  the 
wily  musk-rat,  the  saucy  minx,  and  the  unsocial 
otter.  The  woodsman's  axe  had  not  strewn  the 
mountains  with  giant  trees  for  lumber  or  pulp- 
wood;  aloft  they  pointed  with  all  their  gracious 
majesty,  true  guards  of  the  mountains  in  their 
merry  green  downs.  Respectability  had  not  shot 
the  warbling  tribe  in  order  to  decorate  spinsters' 
hats,  nor  slaughtered  fish  to  gain  the  empty 
name  of  crack  sportsman.  Deer  were  not  hur- 
ried and  worried  to  death  by  a  mongrel  crowd 
of  curs  running  at  fifty  cents  a  day,  choice 
game  for  those  who  crowded  the  lakes  and  were 
in  as  much  danger  of  shooting  each  other  as 
shooting  the  dog-run  deer.  Respectability  had 
not  found  this  nook.  She  will,  but  the  pere 
will  not  know  of  her  coming  —  a  blessing  for 
which  he  earnestly  prayed. 


Three  years  had  passed — three  years  of  peace 
and  piety  for  M.  le  Comte.  He  had  become 
attached  to  the  pere,  loved  the  little,  homely, 
wooden  church,  and  played  its  organ  with  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  in  the  days  when  brave 
men  applauded,  and  fair  ladies  waited  in  sun- 


178  AN    OLD   MUSICIAN. 

shine  and  rain  to  kiss  his  hand.  The  parish- 
ioners, sturdy  fellows  and  comely  women,  saw 
in  him  a  scion  of  old  France  —  that  France 
long  lost,  but  near  and  dear  to  every  Canadian 
heart. 

Blood  and  nobility,  even  in  our  plebeian  age, 
count.  Monsieur  was,  as  they  said,  a  French 
Frenchman,  and  let  any  of  the  Yankees  come 
up  to  him.  It  was  their  mode  of  speaking,  a 
challenge  to  the  saucy  Yankee  who  had  so  often 
derided  their  race  and  language.  Monsieur  le 
Comte  was  not  cold  to  their  warmth.  Like 
most  men,  he  held  that  blood  meant  more  than 
water.  Canada  was  the  daughter  of  France, 
her  ways  and  half-bitten  French  awoke  but 
memories  of  the  fatherland.  He  was  growing  old 
gracefully,  and  priest  and  people  were  happy 
dreaming  of  years  and  Monsieur  le  Comte. 

It  was  a  summer  habit  of  Pere  Monnier  — 
habits  differ  in  season — to  walk  in  his  garden 
every  evening,  reciting  the  Breviary,  now  and 
then  bowing  to  a  lily,  touching  lightly  a  sweet- 
briar  rose,  or  watching  that  bit  of  sunshine, 
the  golden  robin  fall  from  a  tree,  adding  color 
to  a  bed  of  poppies,  or  listening  to  his  sombre- 
clad  namesake  from  a  leafless  maple  twig  sing 
sweet  roundelays  to  his  brooding  spouse.  It 


AN   OLD   MUSICIAN.  179 

was  M.  le  Comte's  delight,  on  such  occasions, 
to  steal  to  the  organ-loft,  after  opening  every 
window  and  door,  and  touch  the  keys,  sending 
the  spirit  of  music  on  hushed  wings  through  the 
garden,  giving  a  new  meaning  to  flowers,  a  truer 
insight  to  bird-songs,  a  soul  to  the  Breviary's 
printed  page.  How  often  had  Pere  Monnier 
tried  to  give  this  divine  feeling  a  name  !  But, 
baffled,  he  used  this  word-language  to  stimu- 
late his  memory,  "  A  subtle  something  as  easy 
to  capture  as  to  define."  It  is  vague,  but  let 
the  critic  be  reminded  that  it  is  a  trifle  hard  to 
put  your  word-drapery  on  a  spirit.  In  his 
failure  of  expression  he  found  comfort  quoting 
Collins*  lines: 

"  Exalting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possesst  beyond  the  Muse's  painting." 

It  was  after  one  of  these  scenes  that  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte,  accompanied  by  a  huge  mastiff 
— the  parish  dog — joined  the  pere. 

"  Well,  well  !  Yes,  well,  well  ! — how  prosaic  ! 
But  that  is  all  the  criticism  I  can  sputter  out 
when  you  play." 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Cure",  it  is  to  me  much.  The 
eyes  have  given  to  me  the  best  compliments. 
It  is  easy  to  make  nice  words,  but  intelligence 
talks  with  the  eyes.  The  mouth  deceives,  the 


l8o  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

eye  —  never,  never;  ignorance  or  knowledge, 
M.  le  Cur6,  is  the  flashlight." 

They  had  dropped  into  a  rustic  settee,  shaded 
by  a  huge  maple  tree. 

"  That  makes  me  think  what  an  experience 
you  must  have  had,  count,  in  your  life." 

"  Experience,  pere,  is  the  motive  power  in 
sorrow;  sorrows  are  all  experiences."  He  was 
using  his  native  tongue.  "  What  is  life  but  a 
series  of  experiences  ?  Experience  is  the  fulness 
of  every  life;  it  varies.  If  you  say  I  had  strange 
experiences,  yes;  and  as  I  feel  so  well  to-day, 
to-day  so  grateful,  let  me  relate  one.  It  will 
be  a  commentary  to  the  line  from  Corneille 
quoted  in  those  days  of  misery  and  Madame 
Brunetaire;  you  remember  it:  '  Je  te  Vavoue, 
mon  ami!  mon  mat  est  incurable.'  The  story 
is  short.  You  are  an  artist,  M.  le  Cur£;  I  will 
submit  the  skeleton,  clothe  it  with  flesh,  give  it 
blood.  It  is  a  reality  to  me,  but  I  cannot  trans- 
fer it  as  it  is.  I  have  lived  it.  It  is  a  part 
of  me  in  flesh,  blood,  marrow;  to  you  it  can 
be  but  the  story  of  a  friend.  I  can  put  the 
bones  together  better  standing;  emotions  want 
room." 

He  stood;  then,  as  if  narrating  the  story  of 
another,  he  said  slowly: 


AN   OLD   MUSICIAN.  l8l 

"  Henri  Marie  Perry  ve,  Count  of  Cayla,  of 
illustrious  descent,  was  born  in  Paris  fifty  years 
ago,  educated  in  the  province.  At  an  early  age 
he  showed  great  love  for  music,  and  was  sent 
to  study  with  the  best  Italian  masters.  He 
became  an  artist  whose  fame  still  haunts  the 
concert-rooms  of  Europe.  After  a  European 
tour  filled  with  honor  and  decorations  he  re- 
turned to  France,  and  wedded  his  first  love, 
Marie  Auguesseu,  a  famous  actress.  One  of  his 
letters  at  that  time,  now  faded  and  torn,  would 
say  that  this  rare  artistic  union  was  the  height 
of  married  bliss.  She  bore  me  two  children," 
—  he  had  unconsciously  become  the  actor;  — 
"  they  haunt  me.  I  cannot  see  them,  but  I 
fed  their  presence  near,  or  is  it  a  delusion  of 
a  mad-wrung  brain?  Soon  will  the  solution  come. 
I  longed  to  see  Canada  and  the  great  repub- 
lic. It  was  easy  to  gratify  my  wish,  as  man- 
agers had  long  been  pressing  me  to  take  that 
trip.  I  embarked  from  Havre,  with  my  Marie 
and  her  children,  bidding  a  year's  adieu  to  the 
hundred  friends  who  came  to  see  us  depart. 
It  was  a  long  voyage,  but  we  were  young, 
and  the  children  healthful  and  merry.  One 
night  I  was  awakened  by  creaking  of  cordage, 
cursing,  and  human  wailing.  I  jumped  from  my 


182  AN    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

cot  and  hastened  deckward.  A  quick,  dull  thump, 
a  lurch — that  was  all.  Some  time  when  in 
Montreal,  if  my  history  interests  you,  call  at 
the  asylum  and  ask  for  a  record  of  Count 
Henry.  It  begins  by  my  being  picked  up  by 
the  fishing-smack  Halifax,  brought  there,  and 
there  remaining  for  years  and  years.  '  Saved  ' 
is  the  record  word — hideous  word  to  me.  At 
length  little  glimmers  of  reason  fused  in  my 
mind,  until  they  became  strong  enough  to  war- 
rant my  keeper's  writing  on  my  passport,  '  Harm- 
less.' I  was  free,  owner  of  a  little  money  held 
in  France,  and  a  few  rare  daily  used  books 
that  had  followed  us  by  the  next  outgoing  vessel 
from  Havre,  and  had  laid  boxed  for  years  and 
years  in  the  cellar  of  my  asylum.  No  one 
knew  me  but  Thompson,  and  misery  drove  me 
to  him.  The  money  drained  day  by  day,  van- 
ished, and  my  only  friends  had  to  go.  Poverty 
is  despotic.  In  my  last  struggle  you  came,  Pere 
Monnier;  Marie  and  the  babies  besought  the 
Master,  and  He  sent  you,  Pere  Monnier  —  my 
own  Pere  Monnier.  That  is  the  tale.  How  easy 
to  box  life  !  I  feel  a  strange  sensation.  I  will 
compose  myself  at  the  organ.  List  to  my 
music." 

He  stole  away,  and    soon    the  garden   was  sad 


AN   OLD    MUSICIAN.  183 

and  dreamy  with  sound.  Sound  begot  forms, 
hope  full  of  joy  and  life,  charity  folding  her 
wings  over  age,  faith  conquering  death. 

"  Mozart's  last  requiem,"   said  the  pere. 

A  zephyr  caught  the  dying  strains,  swelled 
into  a  breeze,  and  played  a  melody  with  the 
maple  boughs. 

"  This  is  his  masterpiece,"  said  the  pere. 
"  I  must  thank  him  and  soothe  him.  It  is 
strange  that  he  should  delay  his  story,  and  this 
his  best,  so  long  from  me." 

He  entered  the  little  church,  clambered  the 
stairs  that  led  to  the  organ-loft,  and  noiselessly 
approached  the  bending  count.  His  long,  bony 
fingers  pressed  the  keyboard,  but  the  spirit  that 
animated  them  had  fled. 

"  Requiescat  in  pace  !  "  was  the  broken  sob 
of  Pere  Monnier. 


184  PERE    MONNIER. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

PERE   MONNIER. 

SQUIDVILLE  had  churches,  a  thriving  school, 
and  a  post-office,  yet  she  was  unsettled  and 
ambitious.  Like  most  mountain  towns,  she 
yearned  for  the  airs  of  city  life,  and,  like  the 
South  Sea  Islander,  donned  them  by  scraps. 
Talk,  that  piquant  sauce  of  small  places,  had 
set  the  town  agog  about  a  new  railway.  The 
railway  was  a  month's  sensation,  then  it  grew 
tiresome,  and  at  length  irritating.  Folks  whistled 
whenever  it  was  mentioned.  "  Whistling,"  said 
Billy  Buttons,  "is  the  easiest  way  in  the  world 
to  squelch  a  gabby-mouthed  creature."  As  a 
saying  it  was  much  in  vogue. 

Railroad  talk  having  collapsed,  something  new 
was  essential.  "  Men  cannot  gape  at  each  other 
and  say  nothing,"  was  another  nut  from  But- 
tons' wisdom-pile.  As  a  commentary  to  this 
Cagy  was  wont  to  remark  "  that  men  are  not 
ducks,  to  pop  their  heads  up  and  down,  and 
then  go  on."  It  was  a  strange  remark  of  mine, 


PiRE    MONNIER.  185 

hurriedly  pencilled  in  my  diary,  that  deaf  and 
dumb  people  could  not  enjoy  life  in  a  village 
like  Squidville;  seeing  everybody  talk  about 
every  other  body,  and  not  being  able  to  enjoy 
that  priceless  luxury,  they  would  certainly  die. 
It  was  Keats  who  truthfully  wrote  "  that  there 
is  not  a  fiercer  hell  than  in  the  failure  of  a 
great  object."  What  failure  can  compare  with 
the  failure  to  talk  ?  It  was  during  one  of  these 
lulls  that  bridge  sensations  that  Squidville  was 
put  in  her  usual  mood.  It  came  from  a  new 
quarter,  but  that  but  added  to  its  worth.  For 
years  Pere  Monnier  had  labored  in  Squidville. 
He  had  seen  his  flock  grow  from  a  dozen  families 
of  French  and  Irish  wood-choppers  to  what  he 
was  wont  to  call  a  tidy  congregation.  He  had 
built  a  neat  church,  mostly  with  his  own  hands, 
and  by  his  sunny  disposition  and  open-hearted 
kindness  to  men  of  all  creeds  he  had  won  for 
himself  a  niche  near  the  core  of  all  hearts.  His 
scanty  purse  was  ever  open  to  the  wants  of 
poverty.  On  various  occasions  he  was  known 
to  give  away  his  boots,  and  trudge  home  in  his 
leaky  rubbers  through  the  winter's  snow,  much 
to  the  discomfort  of  Anna,  the  good  old  house- 
keeper, who  would  solemnly  aver  that  "  Pere 
Monnier  had  a  terrible  lot  of  book-sense,  but 


l86  PERE    MONNIER. 

that  kind  of  sense  don't  go  in  a  town  like 
Squidville,  where  everybody  takes  whatever  they 
get,  without  considering  from  where  it  came." 
Pere  Monnier,  on  such  occasions,  would  promise 
to  care  for  health  and  pocket  in  the  future, 
but  in  the  face  of  poverty  and  hunger  such 
promises  were  eagerly  forgotten,  and  the  deer- 
skin purse  or  wearing-apparel  was  offered  in  a 
way  that  left  neither  sting  nor  aching  memory 
in  the  gift.  He  had  his  foibles  —  most  men 
have.  His  were  on  the  better  side,  and  with 
them  he  had  won  his  way  to  hearts  that  held 
little  in  common.  It  was  a  common  sight  to 
see  him  standing  amid  his  flowers,  trowel  in 
hand,  pointing  to  this  phlox,  or  propping  that 
carnation,  a  bevy  of  keen-eyed,  robust  children 
wondering  that  his  head  could  contain  all  it 
knew. 

He  loved  children  with  that  healthy  love  that 
looks  at  them  as  the  most  interesting  period, 
the  time  of  purity  and  bliss,  when  the  world 
has  not  as  yet  enslaved  their  hearts  with  its 
siren  airs.  He  fully  understood  the  Master's 
beautiful  saying,  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  Me."  Children  intuitively  knew  this,  and 
flocked  to  him,  delighting  to  be  the  lambs  of 
such  a  shepherd.  With  gentleness  he  extracted 


P&RE    MONNIER.  187 

their  manliness,  and  in  their  pastimes  and  games, 
moving  among  them,  but  added  to  their  respect, 
while  it  heightened  their  love.  "  Be  honorable 
and  you'll  get  along  with  Pere  Monnier,"  was 
the  common  say.  It  was  a  truth  well  put. 
Dogs  were  his  constant  companions.  A  stranger 
was  sure  to  be  told  that  "  his  Mickey  could 
water  a  deer  before  you  would  have  time  to 
draw  your  tricker, "  and  the  village  would  con- 
firm this,  and  proudly  add  that  it  was  a  know- 
ing deer  that  could  fool  the  pere.  Guides  who 
had  resented  what  they  were  pleased  to  gingerly 
call  dominie  influence,  admiring  Mickey's  won- 
derful skill,  came  near  his  master.  From  that 
moment  harshness  and  rudeness  fled.  "  I  didn't 
like,  him  at  first,"  said  Snappy  Woodruff,  the 
worst  man  that  carries  a  gun  in  our  woods, 
"  but  ye  have  only  to  rub  against  him  to  find 
the  genuine  stuff.  None  of  your  rotten  wood 
about  him."  On  hearing  this  Buttons,  stamping 
a  letter,  fiercely  exclaimed:  "  Snappy  gave  in 
his  gun,  shot  right  through  lungs  and  liver  after 
saying  he  wouldn't  stand  on  the  same  side 
of  the  river;  that's  dropping  with  the  first  bul- 
let." Other  men,  and  they  were  not  few,  saw 
in  the  tall,  athletic  pere  a  rare  scholar,  alert 
to  every  move  that  convulses  society,  and  a 


l88  pfcRE    MONN1ER. 

'calm  critic,  capable  of  seeing  through  shams, 
and  pricking  them  with  an  irony  and  sarcasm 
masterly  blended.  Such  men  could  not  under- 
stand why  a  man  of  such  great  gifts,  and  these  so 
thoroughly  developed  by  study  and  travel,  could 
spend  the  best  years  of  his  life  among  an  igno- 
rant and  poverty-stricken  people. 

To  one  who  had  asked  him  for  an  explana- 
tion he  remarked  in  his  earnest  way,  his  gray 
eyes  lit  up:  "As  it  is  written:  '  For  Thy  sake 
we  are  killed  all  the  day  long;  we  are  accounted 
as  sheep  for  the  slaughter.'  '  Then,  raising  his 
voice,  and  running  his  long,  tapering  ringers 
through  his  well-mixed  hair:  "  Nay,  in  all  these 
things  we  are  more  than  conquerors  through 
Him  that  loved  us."  The  questioner  was  gaz- 
ing at  the  birds,  books,  and  flowers  that  peeped 
from  every  corner  of  the  cottage.  These  words 
withdrew  his  eyes,  and  riveted  them  on  the 
speaker.  The  face  was  tranquil,  as  if  the 
words  were  the  subject  of  his  meditation.  "  I 
admire  your  life;  I  cannot  comprehend  your 
philosophy,"  was  the  questioner's  muttered  re- 
sponse. "  And  yet  it  is  the  only  philosophy 
that  can  cure  your  world-pain,"  was  the  quie* 
rejoinder.  Such  was  the  man  who  was  to 
give  Squidville  its  greatest  and  most  lasting 


PERE    MONNIER.  189 

sensation.  It  came,  as  most  sensations,  from  a 
small  beginning. 

It  was  carefully  coddled,  watchfully  tended; 
it  travelled,  grew.  To-day  it  is  a  part  of  Squid- 
ville's  history,  and  the  foundation  of  this  tale. 
There  is  a  saying  that  has  been  handed  down 
the  ages.  Like  most  sayings,  it  is  the  essence 
of  thousands  of  individual  experiences.  It  is  not 
a  verity  under  all  conditions,  but  it  has  been, 
so  many  times,  that  to-day  it  finds  a  place  in 
the  common  wisdom  of  the  people.  It  runs, 
"  The  nearer  the  church  the  further  from  God." 
It  was  a  verity  on  this  occasion.  The  nearest 
house  to  Pere  Monnier  was  occupied  by  Louis 
Frechette,  a  tall,  angular  Canadian,  whose  slight 
sho"ulder-stoop  and  long,  muscular  arms  told 
of  a  race  of  wood-choppers.  He  was  a  good 
man  blessed  with  a  large  family,  giving  thanks 
for  each  new  arrival,  and  singing,  "  The  more 
the  merrier."  A  few  sports  were  heard  to 
wonder  how  he  could  support  them.  His  answer 
was  short  and  pithy:  '  The  Sender  will  pro- 
vide." It  was  a  truth. 

The  children  had  plenty;  they  frisked  and  gam- 
bolled on  the  green  meadows,  decked  themselves 
with  daisies  and  buttercups,  breathed  the  keen, 
health-giving  air,  and  fell  asleep,  each  a  prince 


1 90  PERE    MONNIER. 

in  the  realm  of  health.  They  groaned  not 
under  the  oppression  of  modern  conveniences, 
nor  were  they  enervated  by  what  we  are  pleased 
to  call  the  luxuries  of  civilization.  In  truth, 
they  were  free  from  that  most  abominable  tyr- 
anny, "  the  tyranny  of  things."  Dyspeptics, 
whose  yearly  pilgrimage  to  our  woods  is  the 
new  fad;  men  carrying  more  fat  than  they  can 
conveniently  handle;  lean,  lanky,  snappy-eyed 
females,  given  to  women's  rights,  ignorant  of 
men's  wants;  and  those  troubled  with  insomnia — 
envied  the  olive-hued  little  giants.  They  would 
have  gladly  exchanged  their  finery  and  sallow- 
ness  for  the  health  and  appetite  of  the  Fre- 
chettes. The  children  were  happy  in  their 
station.  An  exchange  could  only  mean  misery. 
They  laughed  at  "  city  scarecrows,"  and  rollicked 
away  to  the  music  of  bird  and  brook.  Rollick- 
ing and  the  noise  it  begot  was  the  father's 
staunch  plea  each  Saturday  night  "  that  he  had 
to  leave  his  house  for  a  little  rest,  or  the  young 
ones  would  drive  him  crazy."  He  was  honest 
in  his  delusion.  With  constant  exertion  he  had 
come  to  believe  his  plea  was  genuine.  Ordinarily 
mindful  of  his  wife,  he  never  coupled  her  with 
his  hobby;  perchance  he  was  thinking  of  a 
mountain  saying,  "  Every  horse  a  different 


PERE    MONNIER.  IQI 

halter."  He  acted  on  his  plea,  and  after  supper, 
admonishing  the  children  "  to  make  less  noise 
when  I'm  out,"  he  would  wend  his  way  to  the 
post-office,  where  other  choice  spirits,  riders  of 
similar  hobbies,  came  later.  The  post-master,  to 
make  ends  meet,  kept  in  a  glass  case,  shoulder 
to  shoulder  with  mixed  candies,  a  line  of  long, 
straw-colored  cigars,  cheap  enough  to  enjoy  after 
a  week  of  toil.  With  one  of  these,  spurting 
and  reeking  by  turns,  held  in  the  extended 
mouth  of  each,  story  after  story  of  bear  and 
catamount  was  boastingly  told.  Each  reciter  was 
the  hero  of  his  narrative.  Some  story  suffered 
when  the  young  Poulets,  rapping  at  their  step- 
father's office,  sang  out,  "  Near  morn;  and  ma 
can't  see  why  some  women  don't  keep  their  men 
at  home,  hers  is  lost  be  them."  The  post- 
master would  then  laughingly  announce :  "Wood- 
chucks,  to  your  holes  !  "  The  door  was  locked, 
and  the  hardy  fellows,  in  their  light  jackets, 
humming  some  old  air  brought  by  their  fathers 
from  old  France,  sauntered  home,  smiling  in  the 
night,  asking  the  stars  curious  questions.  Fre- 
chette's pleasant  delusion  had  a  serious  drawback. 
On  Sundays,  when  the  villagers  flocked  to  their 
little  church,  gayly  dressed,  laughter  in  the  eyes 
and  merriment  in  the  mouth,  happy  within,  no 


192  PERE    MONNIER. 

malice  without,  he  slept.  It  was  even  hinted 
by  one  of  his  relations  that  he  snored.  His 
children,  who  caught  the  birds  napping,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  decrease  of  prattle,  were  unable 
to  disturb  him.  This  staggered  Buttons,  who, 
no  matter  when  he  went  to  bed,  was  always  the 
first  to  greet  his  pastor.  His  puzzle  was  this:  he 
could  not  understand  that  the  noise  that  drove 
a  man  crazy  on  Saturday  night  could  make  him 
snore  Sunday  morning. 

Frechette  would  not  be  unhorsed  to  explain. 
Men  rarely  choose  to  analyze  their  delusions. 
Frechette's  conduct  had  been  passed  upon  by 
all  church-going  women.  Stayers  at  home  remem- 
bered the  adage  about  living  in  glass  houses. 
As  he  slept,  he  was  condemned. 

Women  suffer  from  their  husband's  infirmities. 
Mrs.  Frechette  followed  the  rule.  She  heard  of 
her  spouse's  infirmity  in  a  thousand  ways,  each 
way  a  nettle-sting.  Human  endurance  has  a 
limit.  In  her  misery  she  sought  her  pastor, 
and  asked  for  a  cure.  It  was  to  come  from 
Pere  Monnier,  without  a  hint  of  her  interfer- 
ence— one  of  the  ways  that  love  conquers  all 
things.  The  pere  had  but  one  salve  for  all  such 
ills;  it  was  labelled  KINDNESS,  and  rarely  failed  to 
cure  the  sore.  One  Sunday  morning  service  was 


PERE    MONNIER.  193 

late.  Rumor,  that  talkative  old  dame,  gathering 
the  worshippers  in  little  Croups,  gave  to  each 
of  them  a  different  explanation.  While  they 
listened  to  her  prattle  Pere  Monnier  stood  by 
the  bedside  of  Louis  Frechette,  appealing  to  his 
better  nature.  The  appeal  was  debated.  Fre- 
chette, as  usual  with  mountaineers,  argued  from 
nature.  His  point  most  dogmatically  asserted 
was  "  that  everything  sleeps  until  it  wakes." 
Behind  this  to  his  mind  impregnable  fortress 
he  lay.  Another  rampart  was  "  that  it  was  the 
business  of  churches  to  have  bells  to  get  the 
folks  around  in  time,  and  any  minister  that 
don't  bell  his  church  is  doing  wrong,  according 
to  the  Canada  belief."  Half  rising  in  his  bed, 
he  exclaimed:  "  Pere,  put  a  bell  on  the  church; 
sound  her  in  the  morn,  the  way  they  do  in 
Canada.  Give  us  a  chance,  folks  that  have  no 
rooster-clocks  to  cackle  in  our  ears,  and  I 
warrant  you  I'll  be  there  before  Billy  Buttons." 

"  A   bell  !    ay,    a   bell  !  "    whistled    the    pere. 

"  Yes,  a  bell  !  a  bell  !  "  more  strongly  and 
firmly  retorted  Frechette.  "  All  the  folks  are 
talking  about  her;  they're  wild  for  her — ready 
to  pop  their  names  on  paper,  but  you  won't  do 
the  asking."  Pulling  an  old  deer-skin  bag  from 
under  the  pillow,  he  unfastened  it,  and  from  one 


194  PERE    MONNIER. 

corner  of  it,  tucked  away  for  years  to  bolster 
a  pet  theory,  he  drew  a  five-dollar  gold  piece, 
and  with  eyes  of  almost  ecstatic  joy,  and  hand 
trembling  with  long  pent-up  emotion,  he  mut- 
tered: "  Pop  me  first  for  a  five;  pop  me  two 
times  if  some  of  them  don't  toe  the  scratch. 
I'll  die  happy  when  I  hear  her  going  it.  That's 
all  the  town  wants,  and  you're  the  man  to 
give  her,  eh,  pere  ?  Well,  well  !  just  to  hear 
her  playing  out  a  bit  of  a  tune,  one  of  these 
fine  frosty  mornings,  will  make  me  a  lad  again. 
I  wish  you  could  get  the  mate  of  her,  where 
I  came  from."  Youthful  memories  are  the  relish 
of  later  life. 

Pere  Monnier  clasped  his  hands,  and  hurried 
to  his  church.  The  villagers  read  something  in 
his  face.  Not  a  few  said  that  "  there  were 
tracks  of  new-made  tears."  The  hidden  some- 
thing was  unbosomed  when  after  service  he  an- 
nounced, in  his  own  sweet  way,  that  he  was  to 
blame  for  not  studying  the  wishes  of  his  flock 
as  regards  a  bell.  There  was  a  nodding,  and 
a  steady  working  of  eyes;  even  the  youngsters 
scratched  their  heads,  that  ancient  sign-board  of 
wisdom.  "  He  could  not  head  the  subscription; 
that  was  already  done  by  one  who  would  not 
allow  his  name  to  be  given.  He  would  from  his 


PERE    MONNTER.  195 

scanty  salary  gladly  subscribe,  be  the  second 
signer.  Who  would  follow  ?  "  The  sensation  took 
life.  It  was  dual.  Who  blamed  the  pere  ?  Who 
was  the  first  signer  ?  It  disdained  creeping,  grew, 
and  for  years  distanced  all  competitors.  The 
rapid  signing  of  names,  with  the  promise  to  pay 
as  soon  as  logging  commenced,  convinced  P6rc 
Monnier  that  Frechette  but  spoke  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  people's  pulse  when  he  said  "  that 
all  the  folks  are  talking  of  her;  they're  wild  for 
her,  ready  to  pop  their  names  on  paper." 

Snow  came,  wages  were  good,  and  the  Squid- 
villites,  true  to  their  promises  and  signatures, 
deposited  in  the  hands  of  Pere  Monnier  an 
adequate  sum  to  place  a  little  bell  on  their 
church.  If  it  could  be  up  for  New  Year's  Day, 
was  the  common  byword.  Billy  Buttons  was 
not  slow  to  carry  the  people's  wish  to  the  pere, 
He  returned  with  the  news  that  by  Christmas 
she  would  "  be  going  it  as  well  as  ever  she 
would  in  her  life.  If  not,  might  he  never  see 
a  deer."  This  gave  his  information  the  seal  of 
truth.  When  we  vow  by  the  loss  of  the  things 
we  love  even  scepticism  is  silenced.  This  pleas- 
ing news  gave  new  life  to  Frechette.  Believ- 
ing Buttons,  he  would  nevertheless  hear  from  a 
more  authentic  source  the  glad  tidings.  Pere 


196  PERE   MONNIER. 

Monnier,  a  lover  of  nature,  sat  in  his  cosey  sitting- 
room,  surrounded  by  flowers  and  singing  birds, 
by  times  gazing  at  his  Dante,  at  others  listen- 
ing to  the  storm  scudding  the  snow-dust  in  its 
wake,  or  watching  the  wind-wrung  trees  disrobe. 
He  was  at  peace,  happy  in  his  life  among  the 
poor  and  poverty-stricken.  He  was  consoled  in 
hardships  by  the  deep,  earnest  love  they  bore 
him.  What  was  the  city's  glitter  and  jangle, 
masking  hypocrisies,  hypocrisies  that  such  a  nature 
as  his  would  easily  prick,  to  those  rough  but 
loyal  hearts  ?  The  book  seemed  to  whisper  that 
his  was  the  true  environment  to  study  the  cold 
Ghibeline's  immortal  poem.  The  birds  and 
flowers  flitted  into  his  dream.  Shutting  his 
eyes  to  crystallize  into  one  form  all  these  speak- 
ing things,  he  muttered,  "It  is  good  to  be 
here."  The  door-bell  rang,  a  hearty,  whole- 
souled  noise  disturbing  Anna's  nap  over  a  batch 
of  cookies,  and  opening  the  mastiff's  huge  jaws 
in  a  gruff  rejoinder. 

"  Enter,"  said  the  pere,  and  the  smiling  face 
of  Louis  Frechette  graced  the  little  sitting-room. 

"  A  bustling  day,  pere.  The  snow  is  running 
like  a  greyhound,  but  it  will  soon  stop  its  can- 
tering. It  may  leave  a  few  drifts — nothing  to 
bother  you,  pere.  We  were  saying  that  you're 


PERE    MONNIER.  197 

getting  to  be  quite  a  horseman  since  you  took 
to  these  roads.  Yes,  says  I,  and  may  you  be 
long  spared  on  them.  I  wish  we  could  only  do 
a  little  more  for  you,  but,  as  Jemmie  Barbier 
says,  if  wishes  were  things  the  divil  wouldn't 
have  many  in  his  company  below.  Here's 
another  five  to  help  to  buy  the  bell-rope.  You 
forgot  to  put  that  in  your  announcer.  You 
might  as  well  have  Poux  the  dummy  in  your 
tower  as  a  bell  without  a  rope  tied  to  its 
clapper.  I  might  have  waited  a  few  days,  but 
I  heard  that  you  were  going  away  to-morrow 
to  get  her;  so  my  wife  says,  '  Louis,  you  had 
better  be  giving  that  money  to  the  pere.' 
That's  so,  says  I,  so  up  I  steps.  I  must  be 
getting  back.  I  was  in  a  hurry,  so  I  came  with- 
out fixing  myself.  Well,  a  poor  man  cannot 
be  too  fidgety  about  his  clothes.  Get  her  as 
good  as  you  can;  that  you'll  do,  I'll  warrant. 
Good-night,  mon  pere." 

The  door  was  quickly  shut,  and  the  wiry  form 
of  Frechette,  incased  in  a  ragged  snow-robe, 
was  homeward  bound.  Pere  Monnier,  impelled 
by  the  rough  goodness  of  such  a  man,  opened 
the  door  to  get  another  look  at  the  wood- 
chopper.  The  snow  had  curtained  off  all  visible 
things;  the  wind  brought  him  back  a  chanson: 


198  PERE    MONNIER. 

"Vive  la  Canadienne, 
Vole,  mon  coeur,  vole; 
Vive  la  Canadienne, 
Et  ses  jolis  yeux  doux, 
Et  ses  jolis  yeux  doux, 

Tout  doux, 
Et  ses  jolis  yeux  doux." 

It  was  a  favorite  with  his  mother,  and  for 
the  memory  of  her  to  whom  the  nobleness  in 
his  nature  belonged  he  continued  the  song, 
much  to  Anna's  chagrin,  and  the  total  destruc- 
tion of  the  cookies.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  she 
beheld  a  horseman  come  to  the  door,  dismount, 
and  pull  the  bell.  Pere  Monnier  hurriedly 
answered  the  call,  and  read  the  message  in  the 
bearer's  face:  "  Some  of  your  folks  are  sick, 
John?" 

"  Yes,  pere,  my  wife  and  three  children, 
desperately  bad.  I  am  on  my  way  for  the 
doctor;  but  you  said  you  should  be  called  in 
such  a  case  as  soon  as  him.  Anyway,  they 
want  to  see  you.  I  hate  to  bring  you  out, — 
roads  are  bad,  as  well  as  the  night,  —  but  I 
know  you  always  told  us  that  you  would  rather 
be  with  the  sick  than  the  well." 

"  Don't  mind  excuses,  John;  it's  only  duty. 
I  am  only  too  happy  to  go.  If  the  doctor  re- 


PERE    MONNIER.  199 

fuses  to  come  tell  him  that  I  will  see  that  he 
gets  his  pay. ' ' 

"  O  pere  !  pere  !  pere  !  "  was  the  only  answer. 
Tears  had  broken  his  speech.  His  sorrow  pressed 
lighter.  He  raised  his  head,  gazed  long  at  Pere 
Monnier.  Love  glistened  among  tears. 

A  few  minutes  after  his  departure  Pere  Monnier 
rode  out  of  his  yard,  patting  Molly,  and  promis- 
ing her  an  extra  feed  if  she  would  carefully 
pick  her  way.  The  animal  was  willing,  expressed 
by  a  neigh,  so  away  they  went  for  a  twenty- 
mile  journey.  Following  the  highway  for  a  few 
miles,  Pere  Monnier  struck  into  a  narrow  road 
leading  through  a  spruce  and  pine  forest,  and 
opening  into  a  hilly,  sandy  tract  dotted  with 
huge  boulders.  Here  rose  a  few  scattered  huts. 
Before  one  of  them  a  lantern  burned,  a  sure 
sign  it  was  the  sick-house.  Riding  up,  he  dis- 
mounted, put  his  horse  in  a  rickety  shed,  throw- 
ing his  buffalo-coat  over  him.  Pulling  the 
latch-string,  he  entered.  There  was  a  subdued 
greeting,  and  a  hurried  whispering  among  the 
few  neighbors  that  it  was  a  miracle  how  Pere 
Monnier  "  got  through  the  woods."  In  his 
honor  a  new  lantern  was  lighted  and  held  in  a 
corner  of  the  house.  By  it  a  woman  in  the  last 


200  PERK    MONNIER. 

stages  of  consumption  was  visible,  lying  on  a 
rough  pallet  of  chaff.  In  the  opposite  corner 
was  a  half-broken  bedstead,  propped  up  by  a 
row  of  cord-wood.  There  lay  two  children,  wan 
and  emaciated,  wrapped  in  a  few  old  coats  and 
a  faded  horse-blanket.  The  mother  stretched 
out  her  long,  fleshless  fingers  as  a  welcome. 
The  marriage-ring  fell  on  her  pallet;  it  had 
been  long  since  unable  to  find  a  hold.  The 
eyes  of  the  little  sick  ones  became  brighter; 
even  the  baby,  held  in  a  neighbor's  arms, 
stopped  its  natural  but  weird  cry  of  "  ma, 
ma."  The  coming  of  a  good  man  availeth 
much,  is  a  saying  of  mine.  Soon  a  tale  of 
woe  fell  on  his  patient  ear,  first  by  the  garrulous 
neighbors,  then  by  the  broken,  sobbing  voice 
of  the  dying  woman.  The  little  ones  punctuated 
the  tale  by  sharp  pain-cries.  The  tale  was  but 
a  chapter  of  sorrow  in  that  long  book,  so 
thoroughly  known  to  him,  the  history  of  human 
suffering.  Although  it  was  evident  that  no 
human  effort  could  lengthen  the  sufferer's  life, 
yet  she  could  be  comforted,  consoled,  and  her 
children  saved. 

"  When  is  the  mortgage  due,  Mrs.  Livernois  ?' 
asked    Pere    Monnier,    gently    holding    her    hand, 
while    watching   the    sunken,    glassy    eyes. 


PERE    MONNIER.  2OI 

'  In  a  few  days,  pere.  And  he  is  as  good 
as  his  word;  he  will  put  us  out.  We  have 
sold  everything,  as  you  see;  nothing  left  but  me 
and  the  young  ones,  and  we  won't  be  with  John 
long.  Where  we  are  going  we'll  need  neither 
house  nor  food.  It's  different  with  John,  — 
poor  fellow  !  how  he  struggled,  — but — "  The 
woman's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  and  died  in 
a  long,  drawn-out  sob. 

"True  for  you,  Mrs.  Livernois;  he  is  as  good 
as  his  word." 

"  We  know  that,"  broke  from  the  neighbors' 
lips. 

Cruelty  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  Long 
after  its  obsequies  its  shadow  is  a  torment;  its 
scar  never  heals.  Pere  Monnier  was  practical — 
true  charity  always  is.  Hunger  is  a  poor  listener 
to  beautiful  phrases.  Once  relieved,  it  is  docile. 
Some  of  Frechette's  bell-rope  money  was  handed 
to  a  neighbor  to  buy  the  necessary  groceries.  A 
little  sum  was  left  in  the  bony  hand  of  Mrs. 
Livernois.  "  And  as  to  the  dreaded  mortgage," 
said  Pere  Monnier,  "  I  will  settle  that  with 
Gregg.  You  must  not  worry  about  it.  By  the 
way,  I  have  a  spare  bed  —  just  the  thing  you 
want.  Some  of  the  neighbors  can  come  and  get 
it — the  quicker  the  better." 


202  PERE    MONNIER. 

There  was  a  silence.  All  eyes  were  upon  him 
in  whose  coming  came  mercy.  As  he  left  the 
house  and  struck  the  bridle-path  he  could  not 
help  ejaculating:  "Dispossessed  from  these 
stones  !  Of  all  animals  man's  cruelty  is  the  most 
developed." 

He  knew  Josiah  Padlock  Gregg  too  well  to 
ask  a  further  stay.  He  was  troubled  as  he 
thought  of  his  promise  to  the  sick  woman,  and 
not  a  copper  in  his  house  save  the  bell-money. 
At  that  moment  the  story  of  Abraham  and 
Isaac  floated  through  his  mind :  ' '  God  will 
provide."  No  sooner  had  he  reached  home 
than  he  dispatched  Anna  to  Gregg  with  the 
bell-money. 

That  worthy  while  counting  the  money  retold 
the  story  of  Livernois,  and  ended  it  by  warning 
Anna  that  her  master  must  have  plenty  of 
money  ' '  to  prop  up  such  skinflints  as  John 
Livernois  and  his  brood."  Selfishness  regards 
charity  as  a  fool.  Anna's  mind  was  agog. 
"  Merciful  goodness  !  had  he  given  the  bell- 
money  ?  What  would  happen  ?  " 

Every  step  was  convincing.  Gregg  had 
expressed  a  hope  that  a  bell  might  be  upon  the 
church  some  time  ' '  before  the  coming  of 
Gabriel."  She  would  use  this  as  a  means  of 


PERE   MONNIER.  203 

drawing  out  Pere  Monnier.  Her  ordinary  walk, 
a  waddle  of  the  tame-goose  sort,  became  a  trot. 
Curiosity  is  the  fruitful  mother  of  worry.  Pant- 
ing, she  arrived  at  the  parsonage.  Her  master 
opened  the  door  with  "You  have  paid  Gregg 
and  brought  me  the  mortgage  ? " 

"Yes,  pere;  but  he  talked  about  nothing  but 
a  bell.  He  doubts  its  ever  going  up." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  good  man's  face.  It 
was  for  a  moment ;  then  he  answered :  ' '  Anna, 
God  will  provide." 

She  hurried  to  the  kitchen,  shaking  her  head. 
Her  heart  was  heavy;  her  eyes  were  wet.  "The 
bell-money  was  gone.  What  would  Pere  Mon- 
nier do  ?" 

Day  after  day  passed,  Anna  noticing  a  change 
in  her  old  master.  His  books  were  forgotten; 
the  birds  and  flowers  unnoticed.  He  sat  by  his 
desk,  writing  and  writing.  She  could  hear  that 
dreary  pen  pass  over  the  paper  hour  by  hour. 
He  was  as  pleasant  and  as  charitable  as  in  the 
olden  time,  but  somehow  or  other  the  old  smile 
was  wanting.  The  writing  became  less  constant. 
She  could  hear  him  read,  stop,  leave  his  desk, 
walk  his  room,  return,  and  then  the  dreary 
sound  of  the  pen.  "Poor  man!  he's  killing 
himself  to  make  bell-money,"  was  her  say.  One 


204  P£RE  MONNIER. 

day  the  writing  ceased.  Pere  Monnier  was 
unable  to  leave  his  bed.  "  A  little  cold,"  he 
said,  "that  would  soon  pass;  he  would  be  well 
in  a  day  or  two."  Anna  knew  better,  so,  despite 
his  remonstrances,  the  doctor  came,  felt  his 
pulse,  chatted  awhile,  shook  his  head,  as  we 
physicians  are  wont  to  do,  and  whispered  in 
Anna's  ear,  "Pneumonia."  The  news  soon 
spread.  It  was  the  only  topic  at  the  Hunter's 
Paradise.  Among  those  who  listened  to  the 
many  tales  of  his  generosity,  drawn  forth  by  his 
sickness,  was  Miss  Barton  Inglis,  who  had  lately 
arrived  for  the  deer-hunting  season.  She  had 
that  day  paid  a  visit  to  her  old  guide,  Liver- 
nois,  and  there  learned  what  Pere  Monnier 
"had  done  for  him  and  his." 

"I  must,  Mr.  Weeks,  see  this  man  before  I 
return." 

"I  shall  go  with  you,  Miss  Inglis,"  said  the 
proprietor.  "I  know  Pere  Monnier  for  a  good 
many  years.  I  am  proud  to  say  he  slept  his 
first  night  under  my  roof.  If  you  could  only 
wait  a  few  days,  until  he  is  up  and  around.  I 
know  you  will  enjoy  your  visit." 

One  evening  Anna's  dreams  were  rudely  dis- 
persed by  the  entry  into  her  kitchen  of  James 
Weeks  and  a  young  lady  whom  she  knew  to 


PfcRE   MONNIER.  205 

be  "a  city  folk."  The  lady  shook  her  hand, 
asked  for  Pere  Monnier,  and  acted  as  if  she 
had,  to  use  Anna's  phrase,  "been  bred  and 
born  in  the  house."  Weeks,  after  depositing 
some  little  things  that  his  old  friend  might 
relish,  retired,  leaving  the  two  women  in  close 
conversation.  "Now,  Anna,  tell  me,"  said  the 
younger,  "what  is  the  cause  of  Pere  Monnier's 
sickness."  After  many  warnings  not  to  repeat, 
the  story  of  the  bell  "that  should  be  up  by 
Christmas,"  but  now,  as  Gregg  says,  "won't  be 
up  to  Gabriel's  day,"  was  told. 

"  I  have  a  plan,  Anna,"  said  Miss  Inglis. 
"You  will  nurse  the  pere;  get  him  well.  Such  a 
man  must  live;  we  need  him.  During  his  re- 
covery I  will  have  a  belfry  built,  and  a  bell 
ready  to  ring  in  Christmas." 

"I  think  the  ringing,"  said  Anna,  "would 
make  him  be  himself  again." 

"You  must  keep  the  secret,  Anna." 

Tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  To  her  honor  be 
it  written,  with  many  tongue-bites  she  suc- 
ceeded. 

Pere  Monnier's  sickness  was  long  and  hard. 
Within  a  few  days  of  Christmas  a  change  for 
the  better  came.  A  new  priest  had  come  to 
conduct  the  service.  To  him  the  pere  deputed 


206  PERE    MONNIER. 

the  task  of  explaining  the  delay  in  the  bell. 
He  was  not  to  spare  Pere  Monnier,  and  to 
finish  with  the  promise  of  having  it  as  soon  as 
the  pere  was  able.  Christmas  Eve  came,  long 
and  lonely  for  the  sick  man.  The  little  church 
was  beautifully  decorated  with  soft  mountain 
evergreens,  and  the  little  crib,  built  many  a 
month  ago  by  his  own  hands,  lent  a  quaint  if 
sad  charm.  He  could  hear  the  sleigh-bells  mer- 
rily ringing,  and  the  happy  voices  of  the  chil- 
dren. How  he  longed  to  be  with  them  !  He 
would  form  a  picture  of  his  little  flock,  and 
pray  for  the  peace  which  the  world  could  not 
give  them.  Picture  after  picture  came.  He 
went  by  the  altar — the  altar  one  blaze  of  light, 
encircled  by  the  dark  green  of  cedar  and  spruce 
— pleading  for  his  people.  The  choir  was  sing- 
ing "Bethlehem."  His  eyes  became  weary,  his 
head  heavy;  he  struggled  a  moment  to  hold 
his  dreams,  then  softly  slept.  He  suddenly 
awakes;  it  is  striking  twelve.  Was  he  dream- 
ing ?  What  sound  is  that  ?  It  fills  the  air, 
and  bears  joy  into  each  household.  It  sends 
greeting  to  all.  Hear  it  again  !  He  feels  his 
head.  Still  louder  and  louder  it  rings  over  the 
snow-covered  vales,  and  dies  away  in  far-off 
mountain  caves.  "His  head — his  weary  head!" 


PERE    MONNIER.  207 

Tears  run  down  his  cheeks.  "Is  reason  gone?" 
Still  louder  and  louder  it  calls  Pere  Monnier  to 
health,  and  tells  the  love  of  his  people.  Fre- 
chette holds  the  bell-rope.  It  stops.  A  wild 
cheer  rends  the  air.  His  room  is  thrown  open, 
and  a  dozen  voices  tell  him  the  tale  of  the 
Squidville  bell. 

The  traveller  of  to-day  who  visits  Squidville's 
lonely  churchyard  will  find  a  grave  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  guarded  by  the  spreading 
branches  of  a  giant  maple.  There  is  a  well- 
tracked  path  to  the  grave.  In  summer-time  this 
grave  is  covered  with  daisies,  buttercups,  and 
roses  —  children's  gifts. 

There  is  a  marble  monument  in  the  shape  of 
a  bell,  and  on  it  this  curious  inscription: 


To  the   Memory 
Of 

pere  /Bonnier. 

•'Christ's  lore  and  His  Apostles'  twelve 
He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it  himself." 

Erected 

by 

CHARLES,  JAMES,   AND   JENNY   LIVERNOI8, 
Children 

of 
JOHN    AND    FROZINA    LIVERNOIS, 


208  HOME    AT    LAST. 


CHAPTER   X. 

HOME     AT      LAST. 

PASSENGERS  coming  to  our  town  came  by  the 
stage;  whenever  any  other  conveyance  was  used 
it  became  noteworthy  and  a  subject  of  talk. 
When,  then,  one  fine  summer  morning  a  spank- 
ing pair  of  bays,  drawing  a  fashionable  carriage 
containing  a  lady  and  a  child,  drove  up  to  the 
Hunter's  Paradise,  there  were  few  of  us  that  did 
not  take  a  stroll  in  that  direction. 

I  cannot  deny  but  curiosity  was  at  the  bot- 
tom, nor  am  I  going  to  condemn  myself  for 
giving  way  to  a  feeling  which  has  prompted  our 
race  in  all  ages  to  marvellous  adventures.  With- 
out it  how  wanting  would  our  lives  be,  espe- 
cially in  a  mountain  town  !  So  curiosity  keeps 
away  dulness.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the 
hotel  the  lady  and  her  child  had  alighted,  and 
were  superintending  the  transfer  of  their  bag- 
gage. I  took  a  seat  on  the  piazza,  interested 
in  the  new-comers. 

The    lady  seemed    to  eye  the    hotel    curiously. 


HOME    AT    LAST.  209 

As  her  gaze  rested  on  the  piazza  I  had  a  fairly 
good  shot  at  her  face,  which  was  young  and 
beautiful.  There  was  something  in  the  face 
known  to  me  that  set  me  rummaging  amid  old 
memories. 

"Well,"  said  Buttons,  who  had  joined  me, 
"Weeks  is  going  to  have  some  trade.  That's 
an  elegant  rig.  I  wonder  if  she  wants  a  guide  ? 
Things  are  dull  in  the  lettering  business  ;  I 
could  leave  it  for  a  couple  of  weeks  to  one  of 
the  youngsters  if  I  could  get  a  soft  snap.  I 
ain't  as  young  as  I  used  to  be,  that's  sure  ; 
but  I  am  spry  enough  to  guide  any  lady,  no 
matter  how  active  she  be.  It's  no  harm  to  be 
ahead  for  the  job,  so  I'll  ask  Weeks." 

"Billy,"  said  I,  "does  she  remind  you  of 
anybody  you  have  ever  seen  ?  Her  face  is 
familiar  ;  yet  who  she  is,  or  from  whence  she 
comes,  I  can't  collect  myself  enough  to  know. 
Well,  there  goes  Jim,  smiling  as  usual.  How  he 
manages  to  keep  so  light-hearted  is  my  puzzle." 

"It's  only  on  the  surface;  the  heart's  ate  out 
years  ago,"  said  Buttons,  "ay,  years  ago.  How 
can  it  be  otherwise  ? — neither  child  nor  chick 
left  him.  You  see  only  the  bark,  and  the  use 
of  that  is  for  hiding.  Tis  as  Pere  Monnier 
says,  the  coffin — the  corpse  is  inside. 


210  HOME    AT    LAST. 

' '  Now  I  get  a  good  sight  on  her,  yes,  that 
face  is  powerfully  natural  to  me,  but  I'm  pok- 
ing my  memory  for  a  name. 

"What  eyes — black  as  jet!  regular  daggers! 
That's  as  handsome  a  face  as  ever  struck  these 
parts.  Well,  now  it  does  look  like  some  face 
that  I  have  seen  years  ago.  It  may  take  a  long 
time  to  cipher  it  out,  but  I'll  get  it  or  lose 
my  night's  sleep.  Here  she  comes;  get  a  good 
look  at  her,  doctor." 

The  lady,  holding  the  child's  hand,  was  soon 
in  front  of  us,  smiling  very  pleasantly. 

"Doctor,"  said  Weeks,  "this  is  Mrs.  Minton, 
from  Chicago.  She  wishes  to  be  introduced  to 
you  and  Buttons.  She  says  she  has  heard  of 
you ;  and  who  in  thunder  does  not  know  Billy  ? 
The  lady  tells  me  she  has  been  here  before. 
That  beats  me;  I  must  be  losing  my  memory. 
Once  I  was  good  in  remembering  faces.  But- 
tons, you  know  everybody  who  comes  here:  can 
you  guess  the  lady  ?  " 

"Jim,"  said  Buttons,  "it's  mighty  queer;  I 
can't  for  my  life.  Yet  me  and  the  doctor 
were  saying  there's  something  very  familiar  in 
that  same  face.  It's  like  an  old  letter  you 
stick  away  somewhere.  You  know  of  it,  but 
you  can't  just  place  it  on  the  minute.  I  have 


HOME    AT    LAST.  SI  I 

seen  them  eyes  in  one  woman,  God  rest  her 
soul!"  and  Buttons  raised  his  hat.  "She  was 
a  good  woman  at  that,  one  of  the  best  ;  as 
Cagy  put  it,  '  Her  likes  will  never  be  seen  round 
these  diggings  again.'  She  is  over  there,  ma'am," 
pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  little  graveyard, 
"these  many  a  days,  sleeping  where  we'll  all 
sleep  some  day." 

A  large,  reeky  tear  hastily  ran  down  Buttons' 
cheek.  He  was  unaware  that  his  simple  words 
had  a  like  effect  on  the  lady. 

Weeks,  dreaming  of  his  own  sorrows,  was  mak- 
ing a  desperate  effort  to  conceal  his  emotion. 

I  was  not  indifferent,  but  somehow  or  other 
the  sorrows  of  man  have  long  since  ceased 
to  clraw  my  tears.  Amid  such  scenes  I  am 
possessed  with  a  gentle  melancholy,  and  not 
infrequently  have  caught  myself  muttering  these 
strange  lines  of  Shelley: 

"  All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish." 

'I  am  that  woman's  daughter,"  said  the 
lady,  pressing  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes;  "that 
woman's  daughter  come  back  to  see  a  mother's 
grave,  and  those  who  were  kind  in  the  black, 
gnawing  days  of  adversity  so  long  ago." 


aia  HOME    AT    LAST. 

"It's  all  like  a  dream  to  me,"  said  Weeks, 
"all  like  a  dream.  To  think  that  little  Aily 
should  be  in  my  house,  grown  big,  married  at 
that;  ay,  what's  more,  having  a  youngster  of 
her  own,  as  like  her  grandmother  as  two  peas. 
I'm  right  glad  to  see  Aily;  couldn't  be  prouder 
if  it  was  one  of  my  own — but  in  a  kind  of  a 
way  you  are,  as  I  brought  up  your  father.  I 
take  it  that  you  have,  as  we  say,  struck  luck. 
It  was  very  hard  for  me  to  see  your  father 
going  out  West,  but  it  was  all  for  the  best. 
Squidville  is  a  poor  place  ;  we  live,  nothing 
more.  But  come  in,  Aily — pardon  my  being  so 
familiar,  but  old  Weeks  would  like  to  be  close 
to  your  father's  daughter.  I  heard  you  call  the 
little  tot  Milly  ;  do  you  tell  me  that's  her 
name  ?  Well,  well,  what  memories  float  into 
my  old  skull  !  I  must  take  the  tot  in  my  arms 
and  alarm  the  whole  house  who's  come.  While 
you  stay  you'll  be  boss  here,  and  we'll  have  a 
gay  old  time  dancing  attendance  on  you." 

Clasping  the  eagerly  listening  child  in  his 
burly  arms,  he  hastened  to  prepare  a  meal  for 
the  little  Aily  who  had  covered  him  with  kisses 
and  mumbled  promises  on  that  dreary  day  when 
her  father,  broken-hearted,  clasped  his  cabin 
door  for  the  last  time,  and  set  out  for  the  West 


HOME    AT    LAST.  213 

to  find  a  home  and  fortune  in  a  new  land. 
Happiness  he  craved  not;  that  was  buried  with 
his  wife  in  the  lonely  little  mountain  graveyard. 
As  he  became  rich  and  polished  men  wondered 
why  some  woman  would  not  find  in  him  a  lov- 
ing partner.  They  knew  him  not  ;  nor  could 
they  know  that  by  his  Milly's  grave  on  the  day 
of  his  departure  he  had  knelt  with  his  child,  and 
in  his  rough  way  vowed  that  "  no  woman  should 
lord  it  over  Milly's  child."  He  could  love  but 
once;  and,  the  link  broken,  he  lived  for  Aily, 
each  day  finding  in  her  something  of  the  Milly 
he  had  lost. 

At  his  death  he  had  but  one  wish:  that  he 
should  be  carried  back  and  laid  by  the  side  of 
his -wife,  with  a  little  tombstone  marked,  "Home 
at  last."  It  was  "  to  have  no  other  squivering 
upon  it."  In  his  last  battle  business  friends  were 
forgotten;  his  wish  was  to  lie  among  the  friends 
of  his  youth  until  the  angel's  trumpet  should 
wake  the  Adirondacks. 

It  was  to  fulfil  this  pious  duty  that  Aily  re- 
turned to  her  early  home. 

As  she  stood  there  one  could  easily  dream  that 
it  was  Milly,  the  village  favorite. 

Buttons  was  dreaming  so  as  he  muttered: 
"  Milly,  Milly,  and  is  it  you  ?" 


214  HOME    AT    LAST. 

"  Is  Aily  forgotten  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  rousing 
Buttons  from  his  dreams.  Don't  you  remember 
your  little  girl,  Billy  Buttons  ?  One  of  my 
father's  last  sayings  was,  'Aily,  don't  let  any- 
body put  me  beside  your  mother  but  Weeks, 
Cagy,  Buttons,  and  the  doctor  ;  they'll  do  it 
gently.  Before  they  clay  me  for  good  I  want 
Pere  Monnier  to  say  a  few  prayers,  just  a  few. 
He's  pretty  old,  but  as  he  married  me,  and  shut 
your  mother's  eyes,  I  want  him  to  do  the  last 
turn  for  me.  Then,  before  coming  away,  get 
his  blessing,  and  show  him  little  Milly,  and  tell 
him  I  have  lain  many  a  night  in  the  West 
thinking  what  he  done  for  me  and  everybody 
else.' ' 

"Ah,  the  pere  is  old,  Aily  !"  said  Buttons,  his 
eyes  becoming  wet,  "old,  Aily;  he  is  not  long 
for  us,  but  I  want  to  lay  down  my  own  burden 
before  he  goes.  I  have  been  all  through  the 
war,  and  didn't  bother  much ;  but  I'm  now  a 
kind  of  lonely,  so  that  when  I  come  to  fire  my 
last  shot  I  would  be  a  bit  easier  if  the  pere  was 
around.  But  I  must  hurry  up;  the  pere  is  near 
the  end.  I  saw  him  going  up  to  Cagy's  yester- 
day, just  creeping  along,  holding  his  stick  on 
the  ground  to  give  him  a  lift.  '  My  !  '  says  I, 
4  I  knew  you  when  you  could  climb  a  hill  faster 


HOME    AT    LAST.  215 

than  a  deer,  and  jump  at  the  first  go-off  any 
fence  in  these  parts.'  It  was  mighty  sorrowful 
thinkin' ;  it  made  me  sit  down  on  a  stump  and 
feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  sink  there  on  the  spot. 
I'm  not  much  on  the  tear  business, — it  was  al- 
ways a  kind  of  soft  to  a  fellow  of  my  turn, — but 
when  I  see  him  hobbling  along  like  a  deer 
wounded  in  the  hind  end,  and  then  thought  of 
how  he  used  to  run,  no  matter  how  I  squeezed 
my  eyes  the  water  came  fussing  down  my  cheeks, 
and  pretty  hot  at  that." 

"Is  Cagy  sick?"  said  Aily. 

"Well,"  continued  Buttons,  "you  can't  call 
him  just  well,  or  he  wouldn't  be  in  bed  a  minute. 
Whenever  he  gives  in  his  gun  deuce  a  much  shot 
he  has  left.  It's  never  been  his  way  to  lie  down 
and  sputter  with  a  toothache.  When  he's  down 
it's  a  tarnation  blow  that  has  struck  him,  keep 
that  afore  you.  Mind,  I  don't  say  he's  never 
going  to  reclaim  his  gun ;  it  looks  by  his  talk 
as  if  he  would.  '  Buttons,'  says  he,  '  this  is  the 
first  year  in  fifty  that  I  haven't  loosened  up  a 
deer  with  a  bullet,  but  we'll  soon  have  a  whack  at 
them.:  That's  not  dying  talk,  but  then  Cagy 
won't  say  '  die '  until  he's  a  prisoner.  I  wouldn't 
wonder  but  your  coming  would  speed  him  a 
bit.  If  he's  alive,  even  if  he's  carried,  he'll 


2l6  HOME    AT    LAST. 

help  to  put  your  father  away  in  his  cwn  lot, 
and  that's  the  best  in  the  graveyard." 

"The  best,  Billy!  That  would  be  kindness 
itself.  But  as  we  like  to  follow  father's  last 
injunction,  it  will  be  necessary  to  bury  him 
with  my  mother,  in  her  lot,  if  there  is  a  place 
there.  I  trust  there  is  room  enough." 

"Yes,  Aily,  there's  room  and  to  spare;  but 
you  and  me  are  talking  of  the  very  same  place. 
When  you  went  West  Cagy  bought  the  plot; 
I  went  with  him  to  do  it.  '  Billy,'  says  he, 
*  Frank's  going  cuts  my  heart.  I  was  just  a- 
looking  over  the  fence  at  Milly's  grave;  it's  un- 
commonly lonely,  Buttons.'  Just  then  I  saw 
him  wiping  his  eyes,  for  the  first  time  in  years. 
'Uncommonly  lonely,  Buttons,'  he  went  on, 
'  and  what's  worse,  I  don't  know  what  stranger 
may  be  planted  in  it.  That's  what  makes  me 
thaw  a  bit.  You  have  your  own  piece  and 
don't  want  this,  else  I'd  give  you  the  first 
chance ;  but  I  kind  of  want  a  place  after  my 
jigs  are  over  to  take  my  long  nap,  and  it  strikes 
me  it  wouldn't  be  bad  policy  to  buy  the  lot, 
and  get  my  certifier.  A  fellow  like  me  don't 
want  to  sleep  nigh  folks  he'll  have  to  be  intro- 
duced to  when  Gabriel  sounds  the  horn.  Be- 
sides, it's  next  to  your  hole,  so  that  when  the 


HOME    AT    LAST.  217 

great  creeping-out  comes,  as  in  old  times,  we'd 
shoulder  the  burden  together.  At  any  rate,  we 
could  have  a  quiet  word  on  the  situation/  I 
never  saw  Cagy  so  strange- looking  as  that  day. 
So  up  we  steps  to  Pere  Monnier  and  got  our 
certifier,  and  Cagy,  putting  three  thicknesses  of 
brown  paper  around  it,  put  it  in  a  mink-skin 
bag  and  hung  it  about  his  neck,  where  he  car- 
ries it  to-day.  That  give  him  the  title ;  so  he 
fixed  it  good  and  as  handsome  as  a  June  rose, 
put  iron  rods  and  chains  all  around,  and  that 
was  not  all.  One  day  he  says:  '  Do  you  know 
the  hardest  drive  I  ever  got  ?  It  was  when 
La  Flamme  said,  "  Some  day  Aily  and  I  might 
have  money  enough  to  buy  Milly  a  headstone." 
It's*  a  good  many  years  ago.  I  suppose  they 
ain't  on  the  ups,  and  they  will  never  come. 
Well,  I  have  ordered  a  bit  of  stone  to  be  put 
there.  I  wouldn't  let  them  letter  it  much.  Just 
Milly's  name;  if  her  own  ever  come  back  they 
can  fill  it  in.'  So  up  went  the  stone.  He  was 
proud  of  it,  and  in  summer  evenings  after  work 
he  would  walk  out  there  to  weed,  train,  or 
water  all  kinds  of  flowers  he  had  growing  on 
your  mother's  grave.  If  there's  anything  against 
Cagy  lying  there  he's  not  the  man  to  sneak  in 
where  he's  not  in  his  place,  and  he  knows  he's 


2l8  HOME    AT    LAST. 

welcome  to  the  best  spot  I  have — no  mistake, 
Aily.  Cagy  will  give  you  his  certifier;  but  if 
there's  room,  better  let  him  nest  in  the  tree  of 
his  choosing." 

Tears  had  long  been  chasing  each  other  on 
the  soft  cheeks  of  Aily.  She  had  often  heard 
her  father  in  the  long  winter  nights  talk  of 
Cagy  and  his  strange  way.  One  of  those 
stories  came  to  her  bit  by  bit.  She  could  see 
her  father's  face  and  the  queer  curve  to  his 
lips.  His  voice  was  ringing  in  her  ears,  saying: 
"Cagy  felt  bad  the  morning  we  left.  He  car- 
ried you  to  the  station,  Aily,  weeping  like  a 
child.  Now  and  then  he  would  mutter,  '  I 
have  been  through  the  mill.'  While  we  were 
waiting  for  the  train  he  told  me  something 
that  was  staggering,  if  it  had  been  at  any 
other  time.  He  had  been  married  when  but 
a  youth,  but,  as  he  spoke  it,  '  After  marriage 
I  had  to  come  to  the  States  for  work.  I  was 
to  send  for  Felina,  my  wife,  in  a  couple  of 
months.  Well,  before  that  time  was  up,  break- 
ing her  heart  about  me,  she  went  to  a  better 
country.  I  was  on  my  way  home  when  I  heard 
the  news.  I  returned  and  never  wanted  to  see 
my  old  home.  They  had  clayed  for  good  all 
that  was  dear  to  me.  Like  yourself,  I  must 


HOME    AT    LAST.  219 

wait,  perhaps  for  years,  until  I  see  her.  That's 
how  I  left  Canada  never  to  return.  I  struck  up 
with  Buttons  here,  so  I  have  been  pegging  away 
ever  since,  with  a  big  black  load  on  my  heart 
that  nobody  could  lift,  much  less  make  light.  I 
promised  to  be  Felina's,  and  when  the  end 
comes  along  I  won't  be  looking  around,  like 
these  fellows  that  marry  two  or  three  times,  to 
see  which  of  the  mates  I'll  be  tackled  with.' " 

This  story  that  Buttons  had  told  her  made 
her  uneasy  to  see  the  loyal  heart,  true  in  love 
and  friendship,  strange  only  to  those  who  knew 
it  not. 

' '  Can  we  not  see  Cagy  at  once  ? "  she  was 
going  to  say,  when  Buttons  arose  and  the  bell 
rang<  merrily  out  the  dinner-greeting  of  the 
Hunter's  Paradise. 

Milly,  holding  Weeks'  hand,  now  on  the  most 
friendly  terms  with  him,  was  calling  her.  She 
went. 

That  night — news  travels  rapidly — it  was  the 
talk  of  every  fireside,  the  death  and  coming 
burial  of  all  that  was  earthly  of  Frank  La 
Flamme.  His  history  was  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  the  best  in  him  brought  to  the  sur- 
face. Death  brings  to  us  many  fine  things  ut- 
terly ignored  in  life. 


220  HOME    AT   LAST. 

Squidvillites  were  proud  of  him,  that,  despite 
wealth,  he  had  never  forgotten  them,  had  their 
memory  green  in  his  memory,  and  dying  wished 
to  sleep  among  them  in  the  little  graveyard  he 
had  helped  as  a  boy  to  clear.  Nor  was  his 
wife  forgotten — the  village  beauty,  the  patient 
wife  who  had  been  lying  all  those  long,  dreary 
years  facing  the  big  black  cross,  waiting  for  the 
only  man  of  many  who  tried  to  win  her  girlish 
heart.  Any  failings — and  no  man  is  free — were 
overlooked,  and  the  young  were  asked  to  learn 
a  lesson  in  true  love  from  the  hearse  and  bay 
horses  that  were  to  drive  through  the  village 
next  morning.  Widows  who  had  married  again 
for  once  had  little  to  say.  Youth,  humming 
songs  of  love,  scorned  any  compromise,  and 
spoke  only  of  lasting  fidelity. 

It  became  a  saying  which  took  root  in  the 
village,  and  was  often  subsequently  used  by 
youth  with  the  land  of  love  very  near,  and  yet 
not  within  grasp,  "As  faithful  as  La  Flamme." 
On  various  occasions  it  had  the  desired  effect  of 
converting  wavering  maidens  to  cast  their  fates 
with  ambitious  youths. 

In  a  little  maple  grove,  visible  from  the 
Hunter's  Paradise,  lived  William  Cagy,  better 
known  to  fame  as  Blind  Cagy,  from  the 


HOME    AT    LAST.  221 

loss  ot  his  left  eye  —  a  loss  that  was  his 
boast,  and  gave  to  his  nickname  a  title  of 
honor.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  a  bit  of 
pure  affection  in  behalf  of  Squidville  that  was 
accountable  for  the  dropping  of  William  and  the 
giving  of  Blind — a  change,  here  be  it  remarked, 
that  was  satisfactory  to  all  parties. 

When  the  news  was  first  bruited  in  Weeks' 
that  a  war  was  on  hand  Cagy,  then  a  mere 
stripling,  was  heard  to  remark  "that  he  had  no 
personal  dislike  to  Jeff."  The  names  of  great 
men  were  all  familiarly  treated  by  the  Squid- 
villites.  "  But  if  old  Horace  was  a-getting  hot 
about  it  he  feared  there  was  something  in  it 
that  didn't  just  look  right;  but,  anyhow,  he 
would  wait  for  Horace's  second  toot,  which 
should  be  due  that  night." 

The  Tribune  brought  it,  and  Weeks,  sitting  on 
a  cracker- barrel,  his  hearers  on  empty  soap- 
boxes, elbows  leaning  on  their  knees,  hats 
brushed  back  for  a  better  view,  faces  eagerly 
peering  into  Jim's,  heard  that  spectacled  worthy 
read  what  was  allowed  to  be  "a  tarnation  hot 
bit  of  writing  —  chunky  and  collopy,  and  as 
gritty  as  an  oak-knot." 

"There  will  soon  be  the  deuce  to  pay,"  re- 
marked the  reader,  finishing  with  a  knowing 


222  HOME    AT    LAST. 

head-shake ;  ' '  when  old  Horace  whoops  it  in 
that  style  it's  a-gettin'  ready  for  the  hunt  you 
ought  to  be,  boys.  There's  music  a- brewing, 
and  the  dance  is  about  to  be  called." 

"I  hear,"  said  Jed  Parker,  "that  they're 
recruitin'  in  Malone,  or  at  any  rate  they've 
tooted  a  call  for  to-morrow  by  ten  —  that's 
what  I  heard;  and  seein'  Horace  a-going  it  at 
that  gait  makes  the  thing  pretty  certain.  Well, 
little  I  thought  their  foolin'  would  come  to 
this;  but,  as  Horace  says,  the  die  is  cast,  flesh 
will  fly  and  blood  flow  before  the  end  of  this, 
and  many  a  woman  and  child  have  wet  eyes." 

Just  then  Cagy  became  uneasy  and  whispered 
something  in  young  Buttons'  ear.  That  young- 
ster nodded  and  winked,  and  then  both  with- 
drew. 

"  It's  bad  policy  to  read  when  the  youngsters 
are  around,"  was  Weeks'  word. 

"They're  off  to  the  front,  I'll  bet  my  life," 
said  old  Jed,  blaming  his  sputtering  tongue, 
"that  blabbed  about  the  Malone  meeting." 

Jed  was  right;  the  first  man  to  step  up  at 
that  meeting  was  Cagy,  young  Buttons  a  close 
second.  In  Buttons'  homely  phrase,  "They 
wanted  to  be  sent  where  they  could  see  some 
game." 


HOME    AT    LAST.  223 

They  had  their  wish.  Buttons  returned  un- 
scathed to  tell  the  valor  and  grit  of  the  Johnny 
rebs.  Cagy  left  a  finger  at  Yorktown  and  an 
eye  at  Vicksburg  uncomplainingly. 

With  his  home-coming  his  name  was  changed. 
The  money  he  brought  tied  up  in  his  deer-skin 
purse  bought  a  maple  strip,  made  a  clearing, 
and  erected  a  neat,  cosey  log  cabin.  Time  and 
patience  and  a  never-ceasing  watchfulness  had 
twined  trailing  vines  in  many  a  pretty  design, 
making  in  summer-time  the  cottage  one  strange- 
looking  flowering  shrub.  The  garden,  with  its 
useful  vegetables,  was  merrily  lit  up  by  bits  of 
phlox,  beds  of  poppies,  and  patches  of  portulaca. 
Birds,  well  knowing  the  occupant's  love  for  their 
musrc,  and  the  perfect  safety  thai  was  found 
in  the  maple  grove,  came  early  and  lingered 
late.  Even  in  snow-time  one  has  remarked, 
"  They  only  changed  their  coat  to  fit  the  frost 
and  homed  with  Cagy." 

The  cabin  was  substantially  furnished ;  the 
walls  decorated  with  pictures  of  Lincoln,  Grant; 
Sheridan  on  his  charger,  right  over  Cagy's  bed, 
where  he  might  "have  a  peep  at  Phil  every 
morning";  Sherman;  and  a  strange  face  in  that 
company,  as  Squidville  in  her  ultramontane  pa- 
triotism was  not  slow  to  point  out  :  it  was 


324  HOME    AT    LAST. 

Robert  Lee.  No  amount  of  argument  or  in- 
vective could  make  Cagy  listen  to  the  invitation 
to  "plaster  over  that  with  another  picture." 
To  such  remarks  he  had  but  one  argument, 
driven  home  by  hitting  his  closed  fist  against 
the  nearest  piece  of  woodwork  and  spitting 
through  his  teeth : 

"Plaster  Lee's  face!  Don't  try  that,  friend. 
Lee  may  have  been  on  the  wrong  track,  as  many 
a  one  before  him,  and  a  lot  behind  him  will  be, 
but  I  guess  he  thought  he  was  as  right  as  we 
be.  That's  neither  here  nor  there  now;  we're 
all  one,  if  them  flabbergasted  politicians  would 
leave  us  alone.  As  for  Rob  Lee,  he  was  a  man, 
and  a  man's  face,  in  these  days  of  pygmies  and 
sneaks,  is  welcome;  so  when  Rob  comes  down 
out  of  that  it  will  be  the  day  after  they  carry 
Cagy  out  for  good." 

Somehow  or  other  Squidvillites  looking  at 
that  face  softened  in  after  years. 

On  the  window-sill  was  a  large  Bible,  referred 
to  by  its  owner  as  "  the  wonderful  Book  of 
God,  containing  a  bit  of  balm  for  every  way- 
farer's ill."  It  was  large,  bound  in  calf-skin,  big 
type,  full  of  pictures,  a  treasure  from  old  France 
brought  by  some  fighting  ancestor  and  be- 
queathed to  the  eldest  son  in  every  family.  It 


HOME    AT    LAST.  225 

was  always  marked  by  the  owner's  "one-glassed" 
spectacles,  as  the  neighbors  called  them. 

There  were  a  few  other  books,  yellowish 
leaved  and  blotted  from  long  thumbing,  their 
covers  very  thick  from  many  coatings  made  to 
keep  them  "in  readin'  condition." 

Their  outside  told  no  tales,  but  a  learning- 
hungry  stepson  of  Buttons  found  in  Cagy's  ab- 
sence ' '  that  they  were  the  novels  of  Walter 
Scott,"  and  when  he  bore  this  information  to 
the  Hunter's  Paradise  there  was  commotion,  and 
a  well- ventilated  opinion  that  Cagy's  head  "  was 
cracked  to  be  puttering  away  his  time  in  such 
silly  stuff." 

It  was  also  hinted  that  the  blind  eye  pulled 
on  some  of  his  brain-strings  when  the  folks  re- 
membered how  often  they  had  seen  him  by  the 
river-bank,  lying  under  a  maple,  with  a  sodded 
stone  for  a  pillow,  "readin'  contentedly  one  of 
them  books,  his  one  eye  stuck  into  the  print 
for  hours,  heeding  nothing  around,  as  if  every 
thing  was  dead."  Even  his  dog  "smelled  the 
rat,"  and  lay  at  his  feet  like  a  cat  by  the  side 
of  a  mouse-hole. 

The  last  fireside  to  hear  the  news,  which 
was  owing  to  sickness,  was  Cagy's.  A  cold  that 
came  of  a  wetting  while  mail-driving  had  settled 


226  HOME    AT    LAST. 

on  his  chest,  and  although  he  had  tried  to  con- 
quer it  with  a  concoction  of  cream-of-tartar  and 
maple-syrup,  ' '  drunk  as  hot  as  you  could  stand 
it,"  and  fought  it  with  all  the  grit  he  had,  the 
battle  was  unequal. 

The  mail-route  had  to  be  given  to  less  ex- 
perienced hands,  wh'le  Cagy  by  degrees  was 
forced  to  keep  within  his  cabin,  and  finally 
forced  to  bed.  He  was  bolstered  up,  his  candle 
on  a  sconce  of  his  make,  his  one  eye  gleaning 
the  adventures  of  Rob  Roy,  his  heart  pattering 
with  sympathy. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  have  a  kindly 
feeling  "for  daredevils,"  as  his  expression  ran. 

The  fire  burned  well,  a  chattering  pine  log 
throwing  a  yellowish  light  over  the  walls,  light- 
ing up  the  pictured  warriors,  and  shining  on 
skins  of  otter,  mink,  bear,  guns,  fishing-rods, 
etc.,  things  which  indicated  his  life-foibles. 

The  dog  that  lay  in  front  of  the  fire,  now 
and  then  grinning  at  a  flying  spark  lighting  on 
his  body,  started  to  his  feet,  shook  himself,  ran 
to  the  door,  scratched  it,  then  jumped  on  his 
master's  bed  and  gave  a  well-pleased  bark.  Rob 
Roy  was  carefully  marked  with  the  one-eyed 
glasses,  and  gently  buried  in  the  clothes.  There 
had  never  been  a  lock  or  bolt  to  Cagy's  door. 


HOME    AT    LAST.  227 

All  that  was  necessary  to  give  it,  said  the 
neighbors,  "  was  a  shove  and  it  opened  itseh." 

Soon  there  was  a  feet-coming  and  the  ac- 
customed shove,  and  the  loud,  merry  voice,  so 
long  known  to  Cagy,  of  Billy  Buttons. 

Time  had  worsted  Billy  badly,  stooped  his 
back,  whitened  his  head,  wrinkled  his  face,  stiff- 
ened his  limbs,  but  the  voice  was  as  young  as 
the  first  time  it  fell  on  Cagy's  ears,  capturing 
him.  That  cheery  voice  was  the  spokesman  of 
a  heart  that  every  Squid villite  vowed  "  was  as 
soft  as  a  girl's,  as  fine  as  silk,  and  when  it  come 
to  stand  up  for  what  was  right  the  bravest  in 
the  town." 

Cagy,  in  speaking  of  Buttons'  heart,  had  al- 
ways1'to  wipe  his  eyes  when  he  came  to  that 
part  of  his  story  where,  upon  losing  his  eye, 
Buttons  said,  as  he  kept  on  firing,  "Cagy,  old 
boy,  I  wish  it  was  my  eye,  or,  for  that  matter, 
my  two,  they  knocked  out,  and  let  you  go;  but 
cheer  up,  they  couldn't  kill  you  by  putting  an 
eye  out.  There's  more  before  you." 

That  was  consoling,  and  on  Cagy's  part  a 
memory  that  did  honor  to  Buttons'  heart. 

' '  Man  alive  !  Cagy,  is  it  in  bed  ye  are,  and 
the  whole  town  about  crazy  ?  Above  all  the 
men  you're  wanted,  and  it's  in  bed  ye  are. 


228  HOME    AT    LAST. 

Think  of  that  !  But  leaving  foolin'  go,  are  you 
laid  up  for  awhile,  or  is  it  something  that's  a- 
working  off  ? 

"Well,  Billy,"  and  Cagy  pulled  himself  up, 
putting  his  knees  on  a  line  with  his  head,  "it's 
a  cold  that  I'm  trying  to  syrup  out,  but  it 
sticks  like  a  burr,  and  there's  no  telling  how 
long  I  may  be  here." 

"You'll  be  up  soon,"  said  Buttons,  impa- 
tient to  communicate  the  strange  news  he  held — 
"  soon,  Cagy.  But  do  you  know  who's  come 
to  town  ?  Well,  you  don't,  or  who  could,  for 
that  matter,  unless  they  were  witches  ?  I'll 
never  say  again  that  anything  is  strange.  Little 
Aily  La  Flamme  is  down  at  Weeks' ;  full 
woman,  married  at  that,  and  has  a  youngster 
into  the  bargain.  Why,  she's  the  dead  spit  of 
her  mother,  and  you  know  what  that  was — 
the  same  nose,  same  eyes,  and  the  same  way 
of  throwing  back  her  head.  Well,  you're  looking 
at  me.  I  don't  wonder  a  bit;  and  I  have 
more  wondering  in  store  for  you.  She  comes 
on  a  sad  business," — there  were  tears  in  both 
men's  eyes, — "sad  business  for  you  and  me, 
Cagy.  She  comes  to  bury  her — " 

"  Father.  Billy  !  "  said  Cagy,  clearing  his  eyes 
with  the  sheet,  "that's  the  end  of  us  all;  but 


HOME    AT    LAST.  229 

I'm  glad  that  Frank  came  back  to  Milly.  She 
was  lonely,  Billy,  so  lonely  that  I  thought  of 
keeping  her  company;  but  now  that  her  right- 
ful partner  has  come  back  I'll  be  content  any- 
where you  put  me — of  course,  the  nearer  my 
chums  the  better.  Perhaps  you  could  spare  a 
bit  of  your  ground.  You  and  I  have  been 
pretty  close  in  life,  and  I  kind  of  hate  to  get 
away  from  you." 

He  was  fingering  a  little  bag  that  hung 
around  his  neck,  and  from  it  he  drew  his  ' '  cer- 
tifier "  and  handed  it  to  Buttons. 

"That  belongs  to  Aily.  I  just  kept  it, 
waitin'  for  her.  I'm  only  sorry  that  the  stone 
is  so  poor.  I  suppose  they  will  put  in  its  place 
sonfething  grand,  like  what  we've  seen  during 
the  war;  but  I'll  never  see  it,  and  I'm  just  as 
glad.  That  little  bit — I  have  seen  it  so  often — 
it  has  got  close  to  me,  and  no  big  affair  could 
take  its  place." 

"  Man,  you're  a-talking  as  if  you  had  given 
up  the  hunt.  When  you  drop,  Cagy,  we'll 
plant  you  beside  Milly  and  Frank.  That's  Aily's 
way  of  concocting  it.  But  you're  not  getting 
any  of  those  quavers  in  your  skull  ?  Never  say 
die;  a  cold  won't  drop  you;  it  will  take  a  few 
of  them  new-fangled  diseases  that  the  doctors 


230  HOME    AT    LAST. 

spout  out  without  drawing  a  breath  to  knock 
you  over.  You're  good  for  a  hundred. 

' '  Now,  the  funeral  will  be  to-morrow ;  so,  if 
you  can,  you're  coming. 

"  Come  to  my  house  and  have  a  bit  of  some- 
thing early;  then  you  and  I  will  creep  over  to 
Weeks',  where  there  will  be  a  team  and  Aily 
waiting  for  us.  She's  full  of  you ;  and  maybe  I 
didn't  tell  her  what  you  had  done ;  and  you 
needn't  be  shaking  your  skull,  it  was  right.  I 
don't  believe  in  letting  a  man  die  before  I  give 
out  my  opinion.  Well,  I  wish  you  could  see 
Aily;  you  would  see  a  second  Milly,  and  if  you 
saw  the  youngster  you  would  have  an  exact 
third.  My  !  how  things  change;  it  seems  only 
yesterday  since  Milly  was  married,  and  since — 
but  it's  not  good  to  be  thinkin'  too  much.  Now 
get  over,  Cagy,  early.  I  will  be  on  the  look- 
out. Try  and  sleep.  Let  me  fix  the  quilts 
about  you.  There;  you're  as  comfortable  as  a 
bird  in  a  nest.  Good-night." 

When  his  footsteps  could  be  no  longer  heard, 
Cagy  reached  for  his  Bible.  His  candle  was 
burning  low,  yet  there  was  light  enough  to 
enable  him  to  read  the  few  lines  that  his  eye 
had  fastened  on  by  accident  : 

' '  The     days    of     man     are    short,     and     the 


HOME    AT    LAST.  2J1 

number  of  his  months  is  with  Thee:  Thou 
hast  appointed  his  bounds  which  cannot  be 
passed." 

A  moth  entangled  itself  in  the  sputtering 
light;  the  words  were  no  longer  legible.  As  he 
closed  the  book  the  candle  went  out.  "Rob 
Roy "  beneath  him,  marked  with  the  one-eyed 
glass,  now  broken,  was  forgotten.  The  flicker- 
ing glow  of  the  dying  pine  log  brought  him 
strange  thoughts  and  long-buried  faces. 

The  morning  came,  one  of  great  excitement 
for  Squid ville.  If  the  truth  were  told,  it  would 
run  that  there  were  few  sound  sleepers  in  the 
village  that  night. 

Daylight  beheld  a  steady  smoke  from  every 
chimney-pot,  telling  of  expectations  and  bustle 
within.  The  Hunter's  Paradise,  a  strange 
thing  in  its  history,  was  kept  open  all  night,  and 
held  little  groups  of  villagers,  amid  smoke-puffs 
narrating  all  that  was  known  of  La  Flamme,  as 
well  as  venting  a  thousand  conjectures  as  to  his 
life  in  the  far  West.  In  this  every  man's  imagi- 
nation was  free,  and  as  a  consequence  there  was 
no  end  of  talk,  so  the  night  unnoticed  had  worn 
away,  and  the  sun  was  feeling  his  way  beyond 
the  pines,  scaling  the  mountains;  the  higher  up 
he  went  the  better  was  he  to  be  seen.  He 


23*  HOME   AT   LAST. 

was  now  tipping  the  chimneys,  and  throwing  a 
kind  of  lantern-light  on  the  roads. 

That  was  enough  to  set  life  agog  in  a  moun- 
tain town. 

It  was  a  saying  that  "a  little  light,  with  a 
bit  of  feeling,  was  enough  for  a  mountaineer  to 
guess  his  diggings." 

Buttons'  sleep  was  scant  and  jumpy.  The 
first  streak  of  light  that  blinked  through  the 
window-pane  was  a  welcome  excuse  to  jump 
from  his  bed  and  open  his  door  to  the  morn- 
ing's freshness. 

He  could  hear  the  noise  and  note  the  lights 
in  Weeks',  an  observation  which  on  any  other 
occasion  would  tickle  his  feet  to  tread  in  that 
direction.  The  present  was  little  to  his  taste, 
bedded  as  he  was  in  the  past.  He  was  nervous 
and  sad.  As  he  dressed  the  years  slid  past 
him,  each  a  hideous  spectre  of  vanished  things. 
He  had  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  fully  awak- 
ened to  the  passing  of  things. 

The  thought  rushed  across  his  brain  of  the 
nothingness  of  Billy  Buttons. 

He  went  out  into  the  keen  air  and  whistled, 
giving  music  to  his  dancing  brain-phantoms. 

He  looked  towards  the  little  graveyard, 
thought  of  La  Flamme,  and  this  somehow  or 


HOME    AT    LAST.  233 

other  travelled  his  mind  to  Cagy.  He  but 
added  a  new  figure. 

When  his  wife  called  him  to  breakfast  he  was 
in  a  kind  of  dream,  where  he  stood  old  and 
raggy  by  a  grave  marked  Past.  Strange,  he 
was  wishing  to  be  there,  not  caring  to  march 
when  all  his  love  rested  there. 

As  he  sat  at  the  table,  his  dream  gone,  he 
was  moved  to  say  audibly : 

"There's  not  much  in  death,  after  all,  when 
love  is  buried,  and  the  future  is  a  cold  stranger. 
I  rather  think  I'd  like  it." 

This  begot  strange  suspicions  in  the  wife's 
head,  who,  womanly  enough,  remarked  that 
' '  people  ain't  supposed  to  skip  off  because  their 
friends  do.  I  suppose  you  got  those  ideas  from 
Cagy  last  night,  who's  sick  a-cause  of  Frank's 
endin'." 

"  Cagy  —  ay,  wife  —  Cagy  —  he  should  have 
been  here,  as  he  promised ;  he  must  be  right 
sick  in  good  earnest,  so  let  one  of  the  young- 
sters go  and  see  if  he  can  come." 

The  breakfast  went  on  in  silence  until  his 
stepson  returned  with  the  news  that  Cagy  had 
a  bad  night.  He  was  sorry  that  he  could  not 
get  out,  much  less  sit  up  in  bed,  and  wanted 
pa  to  hurry  over  after  the  funeral.  He  would 


234  HOME    AT    LAST. 

be  a-thankin'  Mrs.  Buttons  for  a  mug  of  gruel, 
very  weak  and  a  bit  tasty,  as  his  appetite  was 
a  kind  of  scratchy. 

This  news  sorely  depressed  Buttons.  He  had 
an  idea  that  when  a  man  of  Cagy's  fibre  came 
to  a  mug  of  gruel,  and  that  having  to  be 
sweetened  like  a  child's  meal,  the  hunt  was 
over. 

With  big  tears  jumping  from  wrinkle  to 
wrinkle,  he  solemnly  announced  to  his  family 
that  ' '  Cagy  would  never  draw  a  tricker,  and  as 
for  me,  to  keep  the  gun  long  after  he's  gone 
is  something  that  I  don't  expect."  There  was 
a  family  sob  to  punctuate  this  announcement. 

Mrs.  Buttons  and  family  hastened  to  prepare 
the  best  they  had  in  the  most  appetizing  way 
for  the  sick  man.  Billy  Buttons,  sober  and 
subdued,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  keenly 
conscious  of  age,  slowly  sauntered  to  Weeks', 
there  to  await  the  little  funeral  cortege. 

The  coming  was  announced  by  the  ringing  of 
the  church-bell.  Up  the  village  street  came  a 
country  wagon  containing  a  cofKn,  all  that  was 
mortal  of  La  Flamme,  drawn  by  two  bay  colts, 
followed  by  Squidville,  "just,"  said  a  by- 
stander, ' '  a  perfect  image  of  the  way  his  wife 
went  to  her  long  rest." 


HOME    AT    LAST.  235 

On  went  the  cortege,  the  little  bell  "ringing 
its  three  rings,  then  takin*  a  bit  of  a  breathin'- 
spell,"  until  the  cemetery  was  reached,  and  the 
brown-looking  clay  that  told  of  a  new  grave  ap- 
proached. Standing  there  was  Pere  Monnier, 
bent  and  broken  on  the  wheel  of  time,  looking 
in  at  the  open  grave  with  a  sorrowful  look,  one 
that  spoke  of  strange  thoughts  then  tenanting 
his  mind.  Soon  were  grouped  around  him  Aily, 
worn  and  sobbing,  linking  the  past  and  present; 
her  husband,  giving  rejected  comfort;  the  child, 
full  of  wonder,  not  knowing  whether  to  smile  or 
cry ;  Weeks,  holding  its  hand ;  Buttons,  with 
the  shovel  that  was  to  put  his  friend  from 
mortal  view. 

The  pere  spoke  a  few  words  of  comfort, 
blessed  Aily  and  her  child,  then  tottered  along 
the  little  path  on  his  way  to  Cagy's. 

"Ah,  Billy  !  "  said  Weeks,  lifting  the  child  in 
his  arms,  "that's  farewell  to  Frankie;  and 
who'll  be  next  ?  It  looks  as  if  the  pere  is 
nearin'  the  end. 

"Where  is  he  going  ?  My  !  how  he  totters; 
but  he  never  complains.  I  said  to  him  the 
other  day  that  he  should  take  a  rest.  What  do 
you  think  he  answers  me  ?  '  Jim,  there  will  be 
a  long  rest  some  day,  so  as  long  as  we  can  it 


236  HOME    AT    LAST. 

is  better  to  keep  doing  something.'  That's  him 
as  long  as  I  can  remember — never  himself,  but 
his  people.  I'm  not  of  his  way  of  thinkin',  but 
that  never  made  the  pere  a  bit  cooler  to  me 
and  mine.  Well,  he's  turning  up  by  Cagy's, 
which  makes  me  think  that  this  gatherin'  is  a 
kind  of  queer  without  poor  Cagy. 

"  I'll  be  a-gettin'  that  way  myself.  Come, 
Billy,  we've  crossed  many  a  fence  together." 

"And  I'm  going,"  said  the  child.  "Can't  I 
go,  ma,  with  Uncle  Jim  ?  " 

"Better  all  go,"  was  Aily's  quiet  reply. 
"Cagy,  child,  was  grandma's  uncle.  He  liked 
her  as  much  as  Uncle  Jim  likes  you." 

"And  more,  ay,  more,  Aily,"  muttered 
Weeks. 

"  He  was  also  your  grandpa's  best  friend  and 
I  was  once  his  little  girl.  He  kept  that  plot 
for  my  father,  attended  it,  planted  the  flowers, 
and,  being  part  of  us  in  life,  in  death  shall 
sleep  among  us." 

"Is  that  the  thing  that  killed  grandpa?  I 
don't  like  it  !  "  cried  the  child. 

They  were  at  Cagy's  house,  amid  his  flowers 
and  song-birds.  The  door  was  open,  some  one 
was  reading;  they  stopped  and  listened.  These 
words  fell  on  their  ears: 


HOME    AT    LAST.  2J7 

44  He  that  loveth  his  neighbor  hath  fulfilled 
the  law." 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  they  entered 
and  gathered  around  the  sick  man's  bed.  Pere 
Monnier  closed  the  Bible  and  put  it  on  the  win- 
dow-shelf, rose,  whispered  something  in  Cagy's 
ear,  to  which  he  replied: 

"I'm  ready,  pere;  I'll  go  and  look  over  the 
ground  before  you  come.  Farewell;  everything 
is  left  for  you  to  see  to."  The  pere  then  left. 

"You're  getting  weaker,  Cagy,"  said  Buttons, 
"but  rouse  yourself;  here's  Aily,  your  little 
girl,  come  back;  yes,  Aily  and  another  little 
Milly." 

"Do,  Cagy,  sit  up  and  see  this  child;  she 
begs  "a  kiss,"  said  Weeks. 

"Fix  me  up,  Buttons;  pillar  me  behind,  a 
little  sidewise.  I  want  to  get  my  good  eye  on 
you  all.  Poke  over  the  child  now;  ay  !  that's 
a  kiss  that  ought  to  make  me  better — if  there 
was  any  betterin'  to  me.  I  have  been  in  many 
a  tough  corner  in  my  day,  but  this  ends  the 
hunt.  Don't  be  blurting,  Buttons;  a  man's 
days  are  numbered,  and  when  the  time  comes 
let  him  hand  in  his  gun  with  due  reverence. 

"I  fixed  up  my  account,  temporal  and  spirit- 
ual, as  best  I  knew ;  so  I'm  just  awaitin*  the 


238  HOME    AT    LAST. 

call.  I  won't  be  lonely  either;  there's  some 
one  on  the  other  side  a-keepin*  watch  this 
many  a  day.  I  go  off  content,  seein'  you, 
Aily,  and  the  certifier  in  yo^r  hand ;  besides 
this  I  want  you  to  have  my  books.  I  stopped 
on  '  Rob  Roy,'  page  243.  Take  that  Bible, 
given  by  my  mother;  that's  for  little  Milly. 
As  to  my  home  and  belongings,  that's  Buttons'; 
all  but  my  gun,  that's  for  Jim. 

"  Everything  is  in  tip-top  shape,  so  I'm  not 
complainin'. 

"  If  you  pull  out  the  pillars,  and  let  me 
down  easy,  I  will  be  a  bit  better. 

"Turn  me  over  on  my  side;  I  want  to  have 
my  one  eye  on  the  youngster." 

"This  is  hard  lines  on  me,"  said  Buttons. 
"I  don't  see  why  I'm  left,  and  Cagy  gettin' 
ready  to  start." 

"I  pity  poor  Buttons,"  said  Weeks;  "it's 
long  they've  hunted  together." 

"Is  there  any  hope?"  said  Aily,  bending 
over  her  father's  friend. 

"Not  much,  I  fear,"  said  her  husband;  "he 
seems  to  be  sinking  since  we  put  him  down. 
See  how  strange  his  eyes  are  straining,  as  if 
he  wished  to  see  some  one." 

"  He    is    smiling    like    a    child,"    said    Buttons, 


HOME    AT    LAST.  239 

holding    his   hand — "smiling    as   if    he's    happy. 
Listen;    he's  going  to  say  something." 

They  listened;  but  one  word  fell  from  his 
lips — "Felina." 

The  spirit  had  fled. 

On  the  little  gravestone,  a  few  weeks  later, 
a  man  came  and  chiselled  under  Milly's  name 
"Frankie:  Cagy,"  and  then  La  Flamme's  dy- 
ing wish: 

"  HOME  AT  LAST." 


240  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE   PASSING   OF   BILLY    BUTTONS. 

THE  making  of  the  St.  Lawrence  &  Adiron- 
dack Railway  through  Squidville  was,  perhaps, 
the  biggest  event  in  the  history  of  that  inter- 
esting town.  It  gave  work  to  men,  boys,  horses, 
and,  to  apply  a  phrase  that  took  life  at  that 
time,  "  everything  was  a- working,  and  what 
was  not  was  eaten  up."  It  was  a  truthful 
phrase,  as  most  phrases  coined  by  the  common 
people  are.  Their  language-coin  is  minted  for 
use,  and  it  is  worth  what  it  weighs.  They  do 
not  slide  around  the  bush,  but  aim  right  at  the 
bull's-eye,  a  homely  virtue  in  these  days  of 
mincing  redundancies  and  delicate,  bloodless 
word-phrasing.  The  farmer  used  his  team,  his 
boys  were  water-carriers,  his  beef  was  toothsome 
for  the  "bosses,"  his  pork  and  potatoes  the  life 
of  the  workers.  Spare  oats  and  hay  brought  a 
good  price.  Chickens  found  a  ready  purchaser 
in  the  engineer  corps.  So  everything  was  gallop- 
ing in  those  times. 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  241 

Towns  are  like  individuals.  A  chance  once 
comes  to  them  of  marring  or  making.  The  long- 
headed woodmen  knew  the  difference.  Mort- 
gages were  paid  up;  bits  of  land  added  to  the 
original  contract.  Long-standing  store-accounts, 
bequeathed  from  generation  to  generation,  were 
cancelled.  Men  held  their  heads  high,  indulged 
in  a  couple  of  cigars  a  week,  contracted  buggies, 
and  blanketed  their  horses. 

It  has  been  an  observation  of  mine  that  in 
rural  communities  a  man's  wealth  may  easily  be 
gauged  by  the  look  of  the  animals  around  his 
place.  "Show  me  your  company,  and  I  will 
tell  who  you  are,"  is  an  old  saw.  I  suggest, 
Show  me  your  barns,  and  I'll  tell  you  what 
kind  •'of  a  farmer  you  are.  When  barns  are 
paintless,  patchy,  and  rickety  I  look  for  a  hole 
in  the  owner's  hat,  and  a  badly  fitted  patch,  of 
a  color  other  than  the  pants,  on  his  knee-caps. 

Long  hair,  squeaky  boots,  and  pessimism  may 
run  in  the  same  rut  without  astounding  me. 
Man  vibrates  to  environment.  The  music  is 
dress. 

Youngsters  courted  violently,  the  males  donat- 
ing largely  such  allurements  as  silver-tipped  hair- 
combs,  monogram  rings,  the  metal  of  no  con- 
sequence, the  value  lying  in  the  extent  to  which 


242  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

it  shone.  Colored  handkerchiefs,  mostly  silk, 
pocketbooks  with  a  silver  clasp,  bracelets,  candy 
artfully  arranged  that  the  package  was  a  poeti« 
cally  composed  love-letter.  Candy  played  a 
prominent  part  that  year.  The  bashful  swain 
handed  his  love  a  "  lozenger  "  with  this  blunt 
phrase,  "Honey,  will  you  be  mine?"  Gentle 
Phyllis  checkmated  him  with  this  taking  trump 
found  in  the  same  package,  "Just  name  the 
day."  Could  there  be  anything  so  simple  and 
yet  so  poetic  as  lay  hidden  in  a  package  of 
Squidville  candy  ?  Billy  Buttons,  always  ready 
to  voice  a  fitting  phrase,  sold  this  candy  as 
"Questions  and  Answers."  These  things  being 
known,  the  wonderment  ceases  that  marriages 
that  year  made  bachelors  so  scarce  as  to  be 
numbered  on  the  two  hands,  not  counting  the 
thumbs. 

And  here  I  remark,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
new  woman,  that  in  this  lottery  every  man 
drew  a  prize,  and  treasured  that  prize  more 
lovingly  and  ardently  than  on  the  lucky  day  he 
drew  it.  The  reason,  I  think,  is  that  the  Squid- 
villite  has  learned  that  human  nature  will  run 
easy  when  greased  by  love.  That  greasing  he 
does  not  leave  to  his  partner.  He  shoulders  his 
share.  What  is  heavy  for  one  is  light  for  two. 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  843 

Married  women  bought  shawls  and  new  bon- 
nets. They  were  not  extravagant.  They  had 
economized  on  butter  and  eggs,  until,  unknown 
to  their  husbands,  they  had  safely  housed,  in  a 
newly  knit  stocking,  the  desired  store  of  pennies. 
Then,  some  Sunday  morning,  the  pennies  were 
gone,  but  the  shawl  and  hat  were  ready. 

Children  were  kindly  but  forcibly  reminded  of 
the  whipping  that  awaited  them  in  case  of  dis- 
closure of  the  secret  to  the  father,  who  was 
just  then  enjoying,  with  the  ease  of  a  prince,  a 
long  projectile  named  "Rising  Sun  Cigar." 
When  the  bell  rang  its  sweet  invitation  to  come 
and  worship  God,  and  the  husband  called,  "It's 
time  for  church,  ma  cherie,  come  '  veet,'  "  the 
wife,"  with  a  grave  face,  bonnet  and  shawl  most 
artistically  arranged,  was  soon  by  his  side,  care- 
lessly looking  into  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  quick  heart-beat,  a  welling  of 
love,  a  talking  of  eyes,  and  a  kiss  that  set  the 
children  prattling.  When  the  church-goers  com- 
plimented him  on  the  "youngness"  of  his  wife 
he  blushingly  remarked : 

"Ay,  ay  !  It  would  be  hard  to  find  her 
equal.  No  mistake  of  that." 

It  was  honorable  pride,  and  a  true  setting  of 
love. 


244  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

As  they  homeward  went  laughingly  he  told 
her  all  the  compliments  paid  her,  and  added 
his  own,  by  far  the  most  delightful  to  a  good 
woman's  ears.  In  them  were  the  magic  memories 
of  life. 

In  the  great  business  bustle  Billy  Buttons 
bore  a  distinguished  part.  The  "lettering  busi- 
ness" was  increased  one  hundredfold,  while  the 
original  bait  of  drawing  customers  by  keeping 
a  post-office  showed  itself  a  brilliant  scheme. 
Trade  was  brisk.  A  man,  while  waiting  for  the 
assortment  of  his  mail,  saw  many  things  to 
touch  his  pocketbook,  and  at  reasonable  prices. 

The  post-master's  well-known  honesty  and  per- 
fect frankness  in  regard  to  his  goods  soon 
made  his  name  known  to  the  railway-camps. 
Then  there  were  other  attractions,  dear  to  the 
tired  workmen.  Everybody  was  welcome  to  the 
post-office,  and  everybody  free  to  tell  his  yarn, 
assured  of  a  listening  and  approving  crowd. 

There  was  no  flagging,  as  the  master  could  al- 
ways be  depended  on  for  a  war-  or  hunting- 
story.  To  his  credit  be  it  written,  the  war- 
stories  were  rot  his  own  exploits.  Hunting- 
stories  gave  him  a  wider  range,  and  brought  out 
more  fully  his  great  gifts  as  a  born  story-teller. 
In  these,  as  hero,  he  divided  honors  with 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  245 

Cagy,  always  giving  due  share  to  those  wonder- 
ful dogs  he  had  bred  and  trained. 

Patronage  such  as  this  meant  money,  and  by 
the  time  the  railway  was  laid  the  post-master 
had,  in  various  stockings  and  old  shoes,  the  snug 
sum  of  two  thousand  dollars.  A  part  of  this 
was  carried  to  his  home;  the  remainder  he  kept 
in  his  office  covered  with  old  papers,  mailed  as 
a  token  of  home  love,  but  never  called  for  by 
the  owners. 

It  was,  as  he  said,  handy  if  one  of  his  friends 
needed  a  "lift";  just  in  a  place  where  he 
could  get  it  easily,  and  no  one  was  the  wiser. 
His  wife  objected,  the  feminine  element  being 
noted  in  history  as  always  suspicious  of  the 
future.  Her  ideas  of  thieves  were  foolish  to  his 
view.  He  called  her  reasonings  "ravings,"  re- 
minding her  that  his  every  cent  was  honestly  got, 
and  that  no  man  or  woman  would  steal  from 
Billy  Buttons.  In  her  own  way  she  was  a  lo- 
gician, and  argued  that  if  thieves  did  not  believe 
in  honesty  what  did  they  care  how  honestly  a 
thing  was  got  if  they  could  put  their  hands  on  it. 

All  this  was  adverse  to  the  mind  of  her  hus- 
band, and  the  old  stockings  and  paper-stuffed 
shoe  lay  under  the  thousand  weeklies,  holding  a 
bit  of  balm  for  the  needy. 


246  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

The  post-master  lived  under  a  pretty  delusion 
that  no  robber,  no  matter  how  acute  he  might 
be,  would  have  brains  enough  "to  poke  amid 
old  papers."  Supported  by  this  thought,  he 
laughed  at  his  wife's  notions,  and  went  on,  day 
after  day,  augmenting  the  paper-heap. 

Many  a  woman  of  Squidville,  wanting  papers 
to  stuff  holes  and  corners,  came  to  him,  know- 
ing his  large  store,  but  with  a  laugh  and  a  word 
he  managed  to  baffle  them  and  send  them  home 
in  good  humor. 

"How  can  I  give  them,"  he  would  say,  "as 
they  ain't  mine  and  I  don't  know  when  the 
owner  might  call  ?  A  post-master  ain't  like 
common  folks ;  their  papers  are  their  own ;  mine 
belong  to  everybody.  Besides,  the  papers  I 
would  give,  perhaps,  contain  something  better 
not  known,  so,  all  in  all,  I  must  do  my  duty 
and  leave  them  where  they  are. 

There  was  one  man  that  knew  of  the  treasure 
beneath  the  dusty,  ill-kept  heap,  whose  cat-eyes 
for  a  moment  glimpsed  at  the  stockings,  and 
riveted  themselves  on  the  old  shoe  when  its 
master  took  from  it  the  full  of  his  fingers  of 
notes  to  help  ' '  a  silly  man  that  was  trying  to 
fool  the  people  for  a  living,  and,  like  a  fool,  was 


THE   PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  247 

caught  when  he  was  making  the  biggest  jump  of 
his  life." 

When  Corkey  Slithers,  bleeding  and  whining, 
was  left  with  a  warning  to  quit  Squidville  for- 
ever, Buttons  returned  home  to  harness  his  horse 
and  start  in  quest  of  the  fallen  professor  of  oc- 
cultism. He  found  him  scarcely  knowing  what 
to  do,  and,  arousing  him  to  a  sense  of  danger, 
he  put  him  in  his  buggy  and  drove  to  the  post- 
office. 

Although  it  was  the  post-office  talk  for  weeks 
that  Corkey  ' '  was  coining  money,  that  he  had 
struck  a  regular  hail-storm  in  that  line,"  Buttons 
was  incredulous. 

He  had  a  poor  idea  of  Squidville's  individual 
generosity  when  it  comes  to  pay  for  "  capering 
that  brings  in  nothing  back." 

To  the  Rev.  Jamie  Snooter,  a  travelling  tem- 
perance-talker, who  boasted  of  his  conversions  in 
all  the  mountain  towns,  and  who  boldly  attacked 
Billy  on  smoking  and  drinking,  clenching  it 
down,  as  he  said,  with  Billy's  logic  on  capering, 
he  replied,  stamping  the  letters  violently,  "  that 
smoking  and  drinking  did  give  something  back. 
Smoking  soothed  the  mind  and  made  his  back 
memory  flow  like  the  Salmon  River  after  a  rain- 


248  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

crop.  A  drink  cured  colic  as  fast  as  it  struck 
it."  The  audience,  mostly  a  crowd  of  experi- 
mentalists, were  with  Buttons,  and  openly 
laughed  at  what  they  called  ' '  the  snooterings  of 
Mr.  Snooter." 

When  Weeks  heard  of  Billy's  brilliant  dash 
against  Snooter  he  could  not  eat  his  dinner 
until  he  had  congratulated  him.  "Just  a  bit  of 
rock-sense  I  put  against  the  Rev.  Jamie's  froth, 
making  his  arguments  more  suddy  than  when 
they  struck  me.  Folks  that  have  a  bit  of  learn- 
in'  nowadays,"  continued  he,  "will  have  a 
hobby — not  for  saving  man,  but  making  them- 
selves a  bit  known.  The  country  is  full  of 
sham  and  shoddy,  Jim  Weeks." 

The  quiet  laugh  and  the  slow  head-shake  of 
the  hotel-man  were  convincing  of  his  sympathies 
on  this  point. 

Corkey,  when  asked  pointblank  if  "by  his 
capering  he  had  made  any  money,"  whiningly 
denied,  confirming  Buttons  in  his  suspicions. 

"  I  trusted,"  he  said,  and,  seeing  now  that 
his  art  was  ruined  by  an  unholy  contact  with 
science,  he  had  no  hopes  of  collecting.  "People 
will  say  '  fraud,'  not  knowing  how  the  spirit, 
observing,  as  only  a  spirit  can,  the  use  of  the 
doctor's  syringe,  concealed  in  his  big  pocket, 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  249 

vanished  at  the  moment  of  action,  throwing  me 
in  full  shot  of  the  doctor's  fluid  and  tangling 
me  with  a  perplexing  gown.  The  common  mind 
is  unable  to  reason  out  such  obscurities,  and 
hence,  Mr.  Post-master,  it  avails  itself  of  that 
destructive  word  fraud.  Call  a  sane  dog  mad, 
and  he  will  be  clubbed  to  death.  Say  fraud, 
and  woe  to  the  victim. 

"  May  I  trust  that  I  am  particularly  under- 
stood, William  Buttons  ?  " 

"  Hush  your  clattering,  Corkey.  Your  learnin' 
and  speechifying  has  been  your  blight.  I  fear 
your  mainspring  is  out  of  kelter.  I  wish  I 
had  a  looking-glass  till  you  would  see  what  a 
spectacle  you've  come  to.  Your  face  has 
cracks  on  it  that  soap  won't  thaw  out.  You 
were  never  much  noted  for  beauty,  with  all  your 
puttying  and  powdering  and  sweet-water  sprin- 
kling, but  now  no  concoction  could  make  you 
passable  in  a  crowd.  Poor  Corkey,  you  are  like 
an  effigy  of  something  a  fellow  might  think  he 
would  meet  in  the  woods.  Faith,  the  preacher 
had  a  head  on  him  when  he  said,  '  Put  it  in 
your  skulls  and  keep  it  there;  observin'  will  con- 
firm it.  Beauty's  skin  deep;  no  more,  no 
less.' 

"The  observin'   is  all    on    you,    Corkey.     The 


250  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

only  woman  you  can  court  now  is  a  blind  one; 
even  her,  if  she  has  good  feelin',  will  note  the 
ruts.  But,  Corkey,  misfortune  should  learn  you 
a  bit,"  and  Buttons  on  one  knee  fumbled  amid 
the  papers,  exposing  stockings  and  diving  into 
the  old  shoe,  bringing  out  the  full  of  his  fingers 
of  notes  and  closing  Corkey 's  hand  upon  them. 
The  papers  were  carelessly  kicked  until  the 
treasure  was  again  hidden.  "Take  this,  Corkey. 
It's  all  for  the  days  when  you  were  courting 
Milly  La  Flamme;  all  for  those  days.  There 
was  no  tucks  then  in  your  skull ;  you  were  an 
honest  man,  and  doing  fine  work,  training  the 
young. 

"  I  don't  forget  how  you  set  the  Poulets 
reading  and  spelling  until  they  could  cipher  out 
anything  in  print.  Many  a  time,  too,  you  gave 
me  a  lift  in  the  lettering.  So,  for  all  you  done 
in  those  old  days,  take  the  bills,  Mr.  Corkey. 
Go  somewhere  and  follow  out  your  profession, 
and  leave  your  spirit  business  to  bigger  fools. 
Come,  let  us  be  getting  out  of  Squidville  if  you 
fear  a  tattered  hide." 

Corkey,  casting  a  wistful  look  at  the  old 
papers,  was  soon  in  the  buggy,  waving  his  hand 
and  saying :  ' '  Farewell  to  Squidville  !  And 
while  I  take  issue  with  you,  Billy  Buttons, 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  251 

whether  I  shall  lie  in  roses,  or,  as  now,  stumble 
amid  briars  and  thorns,  your  name  shall  scin- 
tillate passionately  through  memory's  cells,  every 
vibration  telling  of  your  goodness." 

"The  moon  is  just  right  for  bears,"  remarked 
Buttons  as  he  took  his  seat  beside  Slithers. 
"I'll  bet  they'll  be  nibbling  corn  to-night. 
Many  such  nights  Cagy  and  I  were  afoot  under 
her  glance.  She  filled  my  mind  with  thinkin'. 
When  she's  shining,  just  as  she  is  now,  that, 
says  I,  is  Buttons  when  all  is  going  his  way. 
When  she  dips  under  a  cloud,  that,  too,  says  I, 
is  Buttons  in  hard  luck.  Corkey,  you  should 
think  of  these  things.  You're  down,  but  you 
will,  if  you  take  care  of  yourself,  be  some  day 
on  the  ups." 

His  moralizing  was  rudely  broken  by  Slithers, 
who  rather  sang  than  spoke: 

"Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  the  pleasant 
oanks  of  the  Salmon,  whose  soft  music  gurgles 
in  the  ears  of  your  fervent  admirer,  Corkey 
Slithers." 

"  A  funny  world  this,"  thought  Buttons. 
"Gee  up!"  and  the  knowing  horse  assumed  his 
gait. 

They  drove  to  the  little  coal-box  station  to 
catch  the  early  train  for  Montreal. 


252  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

Squidville  awoke  next  morning,  and,  in  fury, 
rushed  to  the  professor's  den.  But  the  bird  had 
flown. 

A  few  of  the  ardent  spirits  started  to  seek 
the  "swindler"  by  the  various  roads  that  led 
from  Squidville.  On  one  of  these  they  met 
William  Buttons  coming  at  an  easy  jog,  pipe  in 
hand  singing : 

"Je  tiens  cette  maximc   utile 

De  ce  fumeux  monsieur  de  Crac. 
En  champagne  comme  i  la  ville 
J'adore    1'amour  et  le  tabac. 

"  Quand  ce  grand  homme  allait  en  guerre 

II  portrait,  dans  son  petit  sac  : 
Le  don  portrait  de  sa  bergere, 
Avec  la  pipe  de  tabac." 

As  they  came  within  hailing  distance  he  was 
greeted  with:  "Buttons,  we're  looking  for  Cor- 
key,  and  we'll  end  him.  Have  you  seen  him  ? 
Were  you  on  the  hunt  ? " 

Putting  his  two  hands  to  his  mouth,  in  the 
shape  of  a  boat,  the  better  to  convey  sound, 
he  informed  the  hunters,  much  to  their  disgust, 
that  there  was  no  use  in  following  up  the 
trail,  as  it  would  be  lost  at  the  station.  "He's 
gone,  and  forever."  There  was  a  halt  and  a 
turning  of  buggies.  Corkey  had  safely  fled. 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  253 

Banks  were  made  for  the  thrifty  and  careful. 
Their  existence  was  not  unknown  to  Buttons, 
who,  in  earlier  years,  had  made  a  deposit  of 
twenty-five  dollars,  but  drew  it  out  the  same 
day,  to  the  disgust  and  with  the  grumbling  of 
the  cashier,  to  help  to  bury  the  wife  "of  a  poor 
cuss "  whose  ills  constant  never  took  him  pre- 
pared. 

The  cashier's  anger,  opening  in  a  curse,  left 
in  Buttons'  mouth  an  unwholesome  taste  of  all 
money-houses.  He  was  wont  to  say,  and  I  am 
far  from  taking  the  negative,  that  "civility  in 
such  institutions  is  a  polish  that  thickens  or 
lessens  according  to  the  rank  of  the  depositor."  I 
often  wondered  if  it  was  not  on  account  of  this 
polish  that  bank-clerks  were  so  much  sought 
after  to  take  classes  in  Sunday-schools.  If  they 
were  not  so  migratory,  and  so  uncertain  often- 
times of  returning,  in  this  occupation  their  success 
had  been  long  ago  proverbial.  As  it  is,  thanks 
to  the  polish  so  necessary  to  institutions  where 
crafty  civility  is  a  law  of  life,  they  are  always 
preferred  to  the  workingman.  Despite  the  twad- 
dle we  hear  and  read  of  the  dignity  of  labor,  the 
dignity  of  dress  is  higher.  The  moralists  fume 
about  the  hidden  diseases,  of  the  rottenness 
within,  of  the  whiteness  without,  but  talk  is 


254  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

merely  a  matter  of  their  craft.  When  the  rot- 
tenness is  hidden  by  a  few  yards  of  silk,  or 
even  costly  broadcloth,  these  same  moralists  are 
mesmerized,  and  either  deny  the  disease  or  call 
it  by  some  name  that  takes  away  the  odium. 
Unsavory  smells  may,  for  the  time,  appear 
sweet  with  a  liberal  quantity  of  perfumery. 

Buttons  cared  little  for  surface-polish — that 
not-to-be-despised  vesture  which  so  often  has 
masked  depravity  for  years. 

He  despised,  by  his  conduct,  the  dictum  of 
the  cynical  Talleyrand,  who  declared  that  speech 
was  made  to  hide  thought.  Buttons  was  not 
civilized  enough  for  such  a  dictum ;  he  was  not 
sufficiently  emasculated.  A  spade  was  a  spade, 
and  he  thought  it  was  right  to  call  it  such  in 
company.  Think  of  this  mountaineer  defining  it 
as  "an  instrument  by  which  clay  may  be  turned 
over"!  Words  were  to  him  for  the  expression 
of  what  he  felt.  They  were  clean-cut,  and 
went  to  the  bull's-eye  at  once.  His  book- 
learning  was  scanty,  but  ably  seconded  by  com- 
mon-sense— a  lack  that  gives  to  modern  book- 
lore  a  hieroglyphic  appearance.  Yet  may  not 
the  reader,  thinking  of  the  pile  of  waste  paper 
and  its  hidden  treasure,  thank  Heaven  that 
their  common-sense  is  of  another  kind — a  kind 


THE   PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  255 

that  would  save  them  from  such  carelessness. 
Their  common-sense  would  lead  them  to  a 
bank,  where  polish  would  greet  them,  and  civil- 
ity, bowing,  would  take  their  money.  Buttons 
might  lose  his  money  by  a  thief ;  once  the 
hiding-place  was  known  the  taking  were  easy. 
The  depositor  might  lose  his,  as  he  has  often 
done. 

What  difference,  then,  there  must  be  between 
polish  and  a  common  thief  !  The  one  is  a  thief; 
the  other  an  absconder,  a  bank-wrecker.  There 
is  no  difference,  you  exclaim  ;  it  is  a  playing 
of  words — mere  cant.  Be  it  so,  for  it  is  so  ; 
and  the  sooner  you  learn  that  cant  is  our 
ordinary  coin,  and  either  learn  it  and  be  world- 
ly, or  abhor  it  and  withdraw  into  your  cave, 
the  wiser  will  men  deem  you.  Would  you  re- 
form all  this — an  Augean  stable  ?  If  you  would, 
call  not  your  task  a  reformation.  That  word 
has  lost  its  original  meaning,  although  grave 
Dr.  Trench  has  taken  no  notice.  An  elevation 
of  one's  self,  by  any  and  every  means,  at  some- 
body's expense,  will  be  its  definition  by  the 
future  lexicographer. 

Buttons  was  too  near  nature  to  have  polish, 
and  his  life  was  spent  among  those  who  had 
not  studied  the  dictum  of  M.  Talleyrand. 


256  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

These  are  the  only  valid  reasons  I  may  give  : 
Lack  of  polish  and  cant,  which  made  Buttons 
leave,  year  after  year,  his  hard-earned  store  in 
an  old  shoe,  a  poor  safe,  its  door  but  a  stuff- 
ing of  old  paper,  when  he  might  have  had  it 
in  security  and  at  interest. 

Custom  has  a  parasitic  growth.  The  passing 
years,  and  the  old  shoe's  safety,  were  convinc- 
ing that  security  can  lie  in  a  bundle  of  news- 
papers. To  this  thought  he  accustomed  him- 
self, and  rarely,  unless  when  needful,  bothered 
himself  about  the  money. 

Age  had  come  upon  him  not  gently,  he  held, 
but  "with  a  cat-spring."  He  was  peevish  un- 
der her  meshes.  His  had  been  a  life  in  the 
open — a  communing  with  Nature  in  all  the  forms 
she  presents  in  the  Adirondacks.  These  forms 
were  many,  and  to  her  lover  ever  delightful. 
In  spring,  the  dark  green  stretches  of  cedar  and 
pine,  sentinelling  the  cool,  child-laughing  Sal- 
mon. The  speckled  beauties  mischievously  lurk- 
ing under  the  sun-dried  rock,  in  their  eagerness 
for  prey  biting  at  an  illusion  as  he  warily 
drew  the  fly  in  their  way.  Then  the  thrilling 
hiss  of  the  line,  and  the  merry  music  of  the 
reel,  and  the  sunlight  on  the  delicate  colors,  as, 
pluckily  fighting,  their  owner  ran  alongside  the 


THE    PASSING    Or    BILLY    BUTTONS,  257 

boat  to  death  and  the  fisherman's  basket.  In 
summer,  the  lone  boating  on  the  loveliest  of 
lakes,  robins  spilling  music  along  his  route — 
a  nosegay  at  every  landing.  In  autumn,  the 
glorious  deer-hunt  and  ravishing  dog-music.  All 
is  quiet;  then  a  sharp  bark.  Your  eyes  are 
strained  in  the  direction  of  the  dog,  and  your 
gun  unconsciously  follows  the  motion  of  the 
eye.  There  is  a  lull  ;  the  music  has  stopped  ; 
disgust  sits  on  your  face,  and  the  gun  hangs 
stupidly  by  your  side.  Faith  is  pinned  to  the 
dog.  The  crafty,  cunning  fellow  deserves  your 
faith.  Through  briars  and  thorns  and  ragged 
choke-cherries,  not  caring  a  button  for  a  blood- 
speck  on  his  hide,  he  has  followed  his  prey, 
circled  with  him  in  the  spruce,  followed  him  to 
the  edge  of  the  pine,  dogged  him  by  the  moun- 
tain brooks,  across  the  glade,  over  the  moun- 
tains, backwards  and  forwards,  keeping  your 
spirits  dancing  to  the  mad,  merry  music  of  his 
tongue.  And  nearer  and  nearer  the  music 
comes  !  quicker,  sharper,  surer,  a  ring  of  triumph 
in  it,  trembling  by  times,  always  exulting.  The 
gun  is  ready — it  no  longer  hangs  by  the  side  ; 
the  hold  is  one  steady  for  action — the  eyes  are 
quick  and  jerky.  Nor  is  there  long  to  wait. 
With  the  softness  of  an  evening  breeze  the 


258  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

majestic  fellow  —  Apollo,  with  the  sandals  of 
Hermes — divides  the  brush,  his  antlers  thrown 
back,  his  perfect  nose  testing  danger,  his  ears 
quick,  decisive,  catching  every  sound,  his  big 
black  eyes  pools  of  pity. 

The  dog  knows  not  mercy,  and  his  wild  music 
has  brought  the  brute  within  to  the  surface. 
The  brute  has  no  ideas  of  beauty,  and  to  him 
pity  is  unknown.  The  dog  taunts  you — he  has 
done  his  duty.  Comrades  are  listening  for  the 
welcome  shot,  which  shall  conjure  up  visions  of 
venison,  and  a  good  story  for  the  camp-fire.  A 
crack,  quick,  airy,  goes  booming  through  the 
woods,  strays  around  the  edges  of  the  lakes,  and 
dies.  It  is  enough.  Comrades  rejoice.  A  jump, 
a  piercing  bleat,  like  a  sheep  when  on  a  stormy 
night  she  has  lost  her  young,  a  throwing  forth 
of  the  majestic  head,  a  snappy  twitch  of  the 
body  —  the  hunt  is  over  —  the  deer  is  dead. 
Closer  comes  the  dog  in  sight  of  his  prey,  proud 
of  his  master's  prowess,  wildly  leaping,  shaking 
his  head,  wagging  his  tail,  lying  beside  the 
fallen  monarch,  lapping  his  blood,  the  petted 
and  spoiled,  reading  in  his  master's  eye  the  only 
trophy  that  is  worth  trying  for — love. 

Keen  as  was  Buttons'  vim  for  sport,  Cagy  tells 
where  it  was  paralyzed  by  the  spell  of  beauty. 


THE   PASSING   OF    BILLY   BUTTONS.  259 

Those  who  believe  that  beauty  is  a  quality 
only  sought  after  by  the  cultured  (and  it  is  an 
opinion  violently  held)  live  in  their  own  domain. 
The  poor  man's  wife,  who  in  the  burning,  sap- 
ping city,  rears  a  consumptive  geranium  in  some 
old  canister,  wearily  awaiting  the  blasted  bud  to 
flower,  worships  beauty.  The  poor  man's  child, 
in  her  first  country  walk,  who  rolls  in  the  green 
grass  so  soft,  from  her  raggy  carpet,  and  kisses 
the  buttercups,  or  who  chases  the  mottled  but- 
terfly and  fixes  her  curls,  the  brook  her  mirror, 
the  comb  her  fingers,  is  a  lover  of  beauty. 
Love  is  universal,  and  wherever  the  watchful 
imp  goes  his  mantle  is  beauty. 

The  story  runs  that  one  day  Billy  Buttons, 
tired^of  hearing  dogs,  and  seeing  no  game,  lay 
down  on  a  green  patch  by  the  Salmon  River, 
a  patch  hid  by  a  few  stunted  willows,  and  went 
into  deep  slumber  for  a  few  hours.  He 
awoke  carefully,  as  was  his  fashion,  to  find  a 
few  rods  from  him  a  huge  buck,  throwing 
cooling  showers  over  his  back  and  refreshing 
himself  for  a  new  run.  The  sight  was  so  beau- 
tiful that — I  quote  William's  language :  "I  could 
not  draw  a  tricker  to  save  my  life.  I  scared 
the  fellow  away,  and  when  the  dogs  came  up 
and  crossed  the  stream  I  leashed  them.  Every- 


260  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

thing  should  have  one  chance,  while  they're  liv- 
ing, for  their  life." 

To  these  delights  of  autumn  add  that  of  the 
forest  shading  itself  into  winter;  see  the  green 
clasping  yellow;  the  yellow  drifting  into  wine- 
color,  then  darker  and  darker,  until  it  reaches 
the  dark  brown  gnarled  leaf  nipped  by  a  baby 
frost,  the  idle  sport  of  every  scampering  gale. 
What  is  more  palatable  to  the  artistic  in  man 
than  the  silvery  thread  of  the  river  stoled  in 
green  just  as  the  sun  lies  down  to  rest,  breath- 
ing twilight  with  his  last  beams,  draining  his  last 
goblet  to  the  moon's  short  and  mystic  reign  ? 

How  often  had  Buttons  gazed  on  such  scenes 
brewing  sadness,  his  soul  not  deigning  to  give 
its  thoughts  speech-setting. 

Nor  was  winter  less  full  of  pleasantry  to  this 
lover  of  nature.  The  jingle  of  sleigh-bells,  the 
mountain  dances,  the  dashing  hunts  after  the 
fox,  the  retelling  of  folk-lore  by  the  crackling 
pine-wood — these  made  a  joyous  time,  and  winter 
was  as  welcome  as  her  lighter-dressed  sisters. 

Age  had  come.  I  had  written  to  Billy  But- 
tons, and  times  had  changed.  Old  faces  had 
slipped  away;  new  ones  wore  a  strange  air. 
The  rude  mountain  town  was  changing  into  a 
conventional  country  village.  Parties  were  spring- 


THE    PASSING   OF   BILLY    BUTTONS.  261 

ing  up,  and  selfishness  growing.  The  strangers, 
who  knew  him  not,  tried  to  have  the  post- 
office  in  new  hands,  and,  this  failing,  weekly 
petitioned  Washington  for  a  business  post-master. 
Yes,  that  horrid  word  "business"  was  prefixing 
itself  to  everything  and  everybody,  and  dealing 
death-blow  to  the  pleasant  life  of  early  Squidville. 
The  friends  of  his  youth  had  gone.  Some, 
like  Pere  Monnier  and  Cagy,  were  sleeping  their 
last  sweet  sleep;  others,  like  Weeks,  had  sold 
out  and  gone  West  to  join  the  Mintons.  Billy 
Buttons  no  longer  visited  the  Hunter's  Paradise, 
whose  name  had  been  changed  to  the  Brunswick. 
The  new  owner  was  spruce  and  spry.  He  had 
enlarged  the  premises,  painted  them  a  gaudy 
color,  businesslike.  Your  ordinary  tourist  loves 
show.  There  was  a  large  card  in  the  office, 
limiting  the  privileges  of  guides.  Buttons  being 
post-master,  these  privileges  might  have  been 
extended;  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  sail  under 
false  colors.  "Guiding  is  my  life-work,"  he 
warmly  said.  "This  lettering  affair  was  some- 
thing the  boys  put  upon  me,  so  I  keep  it  for 
their  sake,  and  if  they  were  around  to-day  there 
would  be  no  sneaking  after  it.  It's  easy  seen 
my  partners  got  the  start  of  me  in  the  long 
journey." 


262  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

Nor  was  the  little  church  the  same.  The  new 
minister  had  neither  the  devotion  nor  the  win- 
ning ways  of  Pere  Monnier.  He  loudly  voiced 
the  complaint  against  the  post-master's  way  of 
doing  business.  He  rarely  called  on  him,  and, 
when  he  did,  his  signs  of  being  bored  at  the  old 
hunter's  tales  were  evident. 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  said  Buttons,  "because  I  am 
always  telling  him  of  Pere  Monnier.  I  am  sorry 
it  vexes  him,  but  a  man  must  speak  of  his  own 
life;  and  the  best  part  of  mine  was  Pere  Mon- 
nier. These  woods  shall  never  see  his  like 
again.  Just  the  kind  of  a  man  that  Christ,  as 
I  know  Him,  would  have  said  to  '  come  and 
follow  Me,'  and  made  him  an  apostle  right  on 
the  spot.  Well,  he's  gone  ahead,  and  although 
I'm  rough  material  from  him,  I  ain't  a  bit 
afraid  to  follow.  As  he  used  to  say,  '  God 
won't  expect  much  from  them  that  haven't  over- 
much to  bank  on,  and  if  you  follow  me  I'll 
show  you  the  way,'  and  I  may  have  been  a 
little  roundabout,  but  I  never  got  lost  that  I 
couldn't  find  the  trail,  and  if  I  brought  a  little 
mud  with  me  it  was  washed  away.  If  the  wise 
man  fell  seven  times  a  day,  repented,  and  came 
to  grace,  do  you  have  grit.  There's  aye  a 
chance  for  you,  Buttons.  And  when  I  do  get  in 


THE    PASSING   OF   BILLY    BUTTONS.  263 

beside  Cagy  and  Frank  and  his  wife — I  don't 
care  how  high  they  are  that  Pere  Monnier's 
with,  he'll  come  down  and  take  my  hand.  I 
remember  him  one  day  talking  to  a  big  man. 
There  was  a  crowd  around  him  when  I  and  Cagy, 
in  our  worst  clothes,  passed.  He  broke  away 
from  the  rich  folk  and  called  to  us,  '  Boys,  is  it 
passing  your  pastor  you  are  and  not  giving  him 
a  ban  jour?  It's  the  least  you  could  do.' 

"'Seeing  you  were  engaged,'  says  I,  'and 
us  in  our  working-rags — ' 

"'Nonsense!'  says  he;  'nonsense!  You're 
my  own  people,  and  clothes  makes  no  man.' 
Thumping  us  on  the  heart,  '  If  that's  clean, 
you're  gentlemen.'  And  a  cigar  went  to  each 
of  us. 

"'Buttons,'  says  Cagy,  'will  you  ever  for- 
get this  day?  It's  as  sacred  to  me  as  my  Bible. 
May  the  Lord  spare  him  his  health  many  a  day, 
to  thump  men's  hearts  and  drive  in  his  little 
bit  of  balm.' " 

Buttons  was  not  resentful  to  these  changing 
things.  He  spoke  of  them  more  with  sadness 
than  bitterness.  He  reckoned  that  his  days  were 
numbered,  and  he  hoped  that  when  his  hour 
came  he  would,  with  courage  and  decency,  pass 
over  to  his  fathers.  There  was  one  longing,  for 


264  THE    PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS. 

life  has  its  hobbies  to  the  end.  That  longing 
was  to  die  as  post-master  of  Squidville-town. 

His  homely  phrase  was,  to  die  in  harness. 
Age  has  its  hobbies  as  well  as  youth,  and 
clings  more  tenaciously  to  them.  The  death  of 
a  hobby  is  a  chip  from  the  block  of  life.  It 
was  useless  to  argue  old  age, — that  is  uncom- 
plimentary and  in  bad  taste, — physical  debilities, 
which  meant  memories  of  health,  a  contrast 
fraught  with  sadness,  for  giving  up  the  post- 
office.  He  was  heedless,  firm  in  resolve  to  die 
in  the  lettering  business.  The  grocery  trade 
had  been  gladly  turned  over  to  his  stepsons,  the 
Poulets,  with  the  distinct  understanding  that  the 
corner  sacred  to  letters  was  sacred  to  Buttons. 

I  think  he  was  right.  Possibly  he  came  to 
his  idea  by  sound  logic.  Logic  does  exist  out- 
side the  schools.  In  other  days,  when  spry  and 
joyous,  I  had  heard  him  say: 

"  If  you  want  to  kill  an  old  man  quick  let 
him  have  nothing  to  do." 

To  that  same  idea  I  adhere — experience  in  my 
case  makes  it  a  truth. 

Old  age  is  prone  to  ask  questions  from  the 
future,  and  to  no  age  will  that  mysterious 
nymph  unveil.  To  be  thus  thwarted,  I  grant, 
is  not  pleasant.  Then  comes  lone-voiced  sad- 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  265 

ness,  and  the  best  cure  is  work.  Continu- 
ally to  live  in  the  future  is  to  ignore  the  pres- 
ent, and  to  be  untaught  of  the  past.  "Live 
well  to-day  and  you  will  make  the  best  prepa- 
ration for  the  morrow,"  was  a  practical  text  of 
Pere  Monnier.  Buttons  kept  his  little  corner 
fenced  in  with  stout  railing  as  his  own  pre- 
serve. 

He  had  become  a  great  reader,  and  he  had 
the  country  post-master's  well-known  and  re- 
spected right  of  reading  all  the  newspapers  that 
came  to  his  office.  It  was  not  unfrequent  to 
hear  the  farmer  ask,  "  Billy,  had  you  time  to 
give  it  a  glance?"  referring  to  his  weekly  news- 
paper. These  glimpses  kept  the  old  post- 
master busy  when  not  receiving  and  distributing 
mail. 

Day  by  day  he  hobbled  to  and  fro  between 
his  house  and  his  office  attended  by  an  aged 
hound,  the  master's  gait  seeming  to  suit  the 
dog's.  This  hound  was  dear  to  the  old  man's 
heart.  It  was  a  dying  present  of  Pere  Monnier 
to  the  post-master.  The  pere  loved  a  dog  and 
gun — things  that  endeared  him  to  early  Squid- 
ville. 

It  was  meet  that  his  champion  dog,  Mickey 
Free,  whose  wonderful  skill  in  deer-tracking  had 


266  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

won  the  heart  of  the  guides  for  his  master, 
should  be  left,  when  that  master  was  no  more, 
to  the  watchful  tendance  of  loving  hands,  in 
other  words,  to  William  Buttons.  An  old  dog, 
his  master  dead,  kept  for  show,  not  for  love,  is 
a  sad  sight.  In  Buttons'  case  there  was  a 
double  love — love  for  the  man  of  men,  love  for 
the  intrinsic  worth  of  Mickey,  whose  cunning  had 
given  Buttons  many  a  shot. 

So  they  toddled  together.  When  Sunday 
came  the  dog  left  him  at  the  church  door  hunt- 
ing every  nook  of  the  garden  for  his  old  master. 

No  inducement  could  make  him  enter  the  par- 
sonage or  make  friends  with  the  new  rector. 
His  faithfulness  and  lonesomeness  welled  up 
many  a  memory  in  the  parishioners'  hearts. 
When  the  service  was  over  he  took  his  place 
by  his  master's  side. 

"There  goes  the  pere's  dog  and  Billy  But- 
tons," said  the  parishioners. 

Winter  had  come,  more  than  unusually  cold 
and  stormy.  Roads  were  t?ad,  walking  puz- 
zling, even  to  the  young.  Buttons  would  not 
be  home-bound,  so  there  was  only  one  way, 
said  his  family,  to  settle  matters.  A  bed  came 
to  the  office,  and  an  old  sleeveless  coat  as  a 
shake-down  for  Mickey.  The  Poulets  would  see 


THE   PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS.  267 

that  their  father  wanted  nothing.  This  move 
captivated  Billy  Buttons. 

"Don't  bother  yourself,"  he  said,  "carting 
me  any  food.  The  store's  full  of  all  kinds  of 
canned  goods,  fit  enough  for  Bonaparte  and  his 
officers.  I'll  be  like  the  rats — nibble  here  and 
there  when  you're  not  around.  Me  and  Mickey 
will  get  along,  never  fear.  If  we  can't  do  any- 
thing else,  we  can  sit  and  look  out  of  the 
window  and  watch  the  woods  and  think.  I 
guess  he's  like  myself.  If  he  hunts  any  more 
it  will  be  with  his  memory." 

This  life  was  to  his  taste,  and  his  taste  was 
respected.  Billy  Buttons  and  Mickey  Free, 
man  and  dog  bound  together  by  mutual  ties  of 
love,"  took  up  their  winter  quarters  in  the  post- 
office. 

The  post-master  was  an  early  riser.  Long 
years  of  practice  had  confirmed  him  in  his  habit. 
The  first  puff  of  smoke  in  the  village  came 
from  his  chimney.  It  kept  many  a  clock  in 
order. 

"Set  her  about  five  minutes  past  five.  But- 
tons smokes,  and  you'll  be  close  to  the  right," 
was  a  common  expression. 

The  stepsons  came  a  few  hours  later. 

One  morning    there  was  no  smoke  from    But- 


268  THE    PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS. 

tons'  chimney.  This  troublesome  fact  was  no- 
ticed by  Mrs.  Buttons.  She  had,  as  often 
before,  strange  dreams  through  the  night.  She 
dreamt  she  saw  Cagy  prepare  a  bed  of  roses, 
and  when  she  asked  him  what  he  was  doing 
that  for  he  smiled  and  said  ' '  that  it  was  a  bed 
for  one  who  lived  up  to  his  lights." 

Being  further  impelled  by  human  curiosity  to 
inquire  who  was  the  lucky  one,  Cagy  breathed 
her  husband's  name,  and  went  out  of  her  sight 
like  a  hawk  when  she  was  looking  at  him. 
Then  she  awoke.  Mickey  was  savagely  barking, 
but  as  he  had  often  done  that  before  it  gave 
her  but  little  thought.  Now  she  had  something 
to  spin,  three  strands  of  yarn  to  twist  into  a 
tale.  Nervous  by  nature,  suspense  became  an- 
guish. Her  sons  were  aroused  and  her  fears 
made  known.  They  argued  that  their  father 
might  have  been  sick,  thus  allaying  the  smoke 
theory;  the  dog's  barking  betokened  little,  but 
when  they  came  to  the  dream,  they  met  it  with 
laughter. 

Laughter  makes  no  converts.  It  may  effect  a 
prudent  silence,  and  silence  so  glibly  prated  as 
consent  is  a  falsity  which  passes  with  unleavened 
minds  for  truth.  Truth-tasting  as  an  occupation 
employs  but  few.  Mrs.  Buttons  would  be  con- 


THE    PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS.  269 

vinced  when  her  sons  would  return.  As  they 
made  ready  to  comply  with  her  wishes,  a  neigh- 
bor in  a  hurry  for  his  breakfast  came  with  the 
news  that  he  went  to  the  office  for  groceries 
necessary  for  that  meal,  and  "knocked — knocked 
for  fully  a  good  ten  minutes,  and  neither  Billy 
nor  the  dog  let  on,  which  was  a  bit  queer,  so 
I  came  to  get  one  of  the  boys  to  open  and  let 
me  have  what  I  want,  as  it's  getting  well  on." 

Mrs.  Buttons'  suspicions  were  being  confirmed. 
Her  spinning  was  not  in  vain.  The  boys  and 
neighbor  hurried  ahead.  Youth  runs  well.  Age 
and  Mrs.  Buttons  came  trotting  after.  Her 
mind  was  full  of  rude  thinking,  a  land  of  dark 
and  depressing  shadows.  An  old  shawl  was 
carelessly  twisted  around  her  small,  drooping 
form,  the  wind  flapping  its  ends. 

"Mother,"  cried  the  boys,  "go  back  to  the 
house,  put  something  on  your  head,  and  take  off 
your  slippers.  You'll  surely  be  laid  up  after 
this.  It  will  be  a  nice  mess,  you  and  father 
sick  together."  The  language  was  rough  as  a  co- 
coanut-shell,  but  it  had  milk  of  kindness  within. 

She  heeded  them  not,  impelled  by  her  mind- 
spinning.  The  cold  was  keen  'and  bitingly  blown 
by  the  wind,  yet  she  felt  it  not.  When  the 
mind  is  mad  the  body  is  forgotten. 


270  THE    PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS. 

On  she  went,  hoping,  doubting,  reaching  the 
post-office  door  as  her  sons  were  preparing  to 
burst  it  open. 

"Wait!"  she  cried.  "Knock  louder.  Let 
me  call  him.  If  he  is  not  dead  entirely,  when 
he  hears  my  voice  he  will  answer." 

They  obeyed  her  wish.  They  pounded  the 
door  first  with  their  strong  fists,  then  with  stones, 
letting  her  raise  her  weak  voice  to  its  highest 
pitch.  No  answer  came  to  change  her  anguish. 
Tears  clothed  her  eyes,  a  piercing  sob  came  to 
her  lips. 

"Break  in  the  door,"  said  the  neighbor,  "he 
may  be  only  unconscious.  You  know,  Mrs.  But- 
tons, he  was  an  old  man,  and  the  old  oftentimes 
get  fainting-fits.  A  little  water  will  recruit  him. 
Just  duck  it  over  his  face  and  rub  him  up  good. 
I'll  run  and  get  some."  He  went. 

Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way,  and 
there  were  both  will  and  way  in  breaking  the 
door  of  the  post-office.  As  it  fell  inside  Mrs. 
Buttons  entered,  treading  her  way  on  it  calling: 

"  Billy,  it's  me — your  wife.     Where  are  you?" 

Grief  had  blinded  her.  There  he  lay,  a  few 
feet  from  her,  bleeding,  dead.  At  the  shoulder 
of  his  extended  right  arm  lay  the  nose  of  Mickey, 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  271 

his  form  hardly  recognizable.  The  bloody  floor- 
track  told  that,  dying,  he  had  crawled  up  to  his 
dead  master  and,  resting  on  the  arm  that  had  so 
long  fondled  him,  breathed  his  last. 

"  My  dream  !  my  dream  !  "  said  the  widow. 
"  Sure  enough  he's  with  Cagy  to-day,  and  if  dogs 
could  go  poor  Mickey  would  follow  his  master." 

She  knelt  by  her  husband's  side  in  his  blood, 
muttering  a  hasty  prayer.  Then,  passion  con- 
quering grief,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  clasped 
hands,  asking  vengeance  of  God.  Sorrow,  hence- 
forth, was  to  gangrene  her  life.  Some  day  death 
would  come  as  a  respite. 

The  store  showed  evidence  of  a  violent  strug- 
gle, in  which  the  dog  bore  no  insignificant  part. 
A  back  window,  shattered  to  pieces,  was  convinc- 
ing proof  that  by  this  way  the  murderer  had 
gained  admittance.  His  coming  aroused  the 
dog,  who  in  turn  would  awake  his  master.  As 
Buttons  lay  in  his  nightgown  in  the  middle  of 
the  store,  it  was  evident  that  he  was  aware  of 
the  intruder's  design,  and  hastened  to  give  him 
battle.  The  bullet-holes  told  of  unequal  strife. 
Yet,  the  bloody  iron  bar,  lying  as  it  fell  from  the 
dead  man's  hands,  and  the  crimson  stains  lead- 
ing from  the  broken  window  through  the  brush, 


272  THE    PASSING    OF   BILLY    BUTTONS. 

lost  in  the  slightly  frozen  river,  were  convincing 
that  the  slayer  would  carry  through  life  scars  of 
the  old  woodsman's  defence. 

The  winter  had  passed — a  winter  full  of  work. 
Thousands  of  logs  had  been  drawn  to  the  Salmon 
River,  ready  for  the  thaw  and  the  first  freshlets 
to  start  them  down  to  Dixon's  saw-mill.  Spring 
came  with  her  nimble  and  delicate  fingers,  pluck- 
ing leaves  from  buds,  with  her  wand  changing 
the  breaking,  grumbling  ice  into  crystal  pools, 
throwing  bits  of  green  here  and  there  to  light 
up  the  cold  fields  and  mock  the  hilltop  patches 
of  snow. 

How  the  logs  shot,  jumped,  dived,  playing 
like  river-snakes  in  the  slobbery  waters,  the  sun 
shining  on  their  moss-covered  backs!  The  riv- 
er's bank  had  a  merry  crew  to  watch  their  antics 
and  keep  them  in  order.  This  land-coming  fel- 
low was  shoved  to  the  current;  that  "lagger" 
made,  with  a  well-directed  prod  of  the  ' '  cant- 
hook,"  to  quicken  his  pace. 

A  few  of  the  logs,  caught  by  an  eddy,  were 
whirled  into  the  mouth  of  a  brook.  As  the 
driver  dislodged  them  his  hook  brought  with  it 
a  man's  body. 

When   it   lay  on   the   shore,   surrounded  by  the 


THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS.  273 

drivers,  a  suggestion  of  the  "boss"  Was  followed 
by  one  of  his  men  "to  search  the  corpse's  pock- 
ets for  means  of  identification." 

Stuffed  in  the  inside  pocket  was  an  old  shoe 
full  of  bills,  some  of  them  fringed  with  blood. 
Each  of  the  trouser-pockets  held  a  stocking  half- 
filled  with  gold. 

"That's  all,"  said  the  searcher.  "His  money 
didn't  do  him  much  good.  I  wonder  if  there's 
anything  for  us  in  this  find.  If  I  had  a  little 
of  the  yellow  stuff  I  think  I  could  warm  you  on 
it.  You'll  find  the  coroner  won't  let  this  pile 
go  through  his  hands,  as  big  as  it  is;  no,  it's 
too  sticky." 

"You  didn't  try  his  inside  vest-pocket,"  said 
the  boss.  ' '  Often  folks  keep  their  letters  there ; 
it  won't  do  any  harm  to  try.  One  of  you  count 
the  money  in  the  shoe,  for  fear  that  there  be 
any  trouble  hereafter." 

"  To  begin  with,"  said  the  driver  who  began 
the  count,  "here  is  a  check.  I  wish  you  would 
cipher  it  out."  "  Here's  two  old  envelopes," 
said  the  pocket-searcher,  "  for  you  after  you  get 
through  ;  there's  some  kind  of  scrawling  on 
them." 

"This  is  a  check,"  said  the  boss,  "payable  to 
William  Buttons,  and  made  out  to  the  same  by 


274  THE    PASSING    OF    BILLY    BUTTONS. 

Narcisse  Monnier.  I  think  that's  the  reading. 
The  wet  has  blurred  it  a  little." 

"That's  it,"  said  one  of  the  crowd.  "Billy 
told  me  that  he  had  one  of  them  for  five  dol- 
lars, but  as  it  was  the  only  bit  of  writin'  he  had 
of  the  pere,  he  wouldn't  change  it  for  no 
money." 

"  You're  right.  It's  for  a  five,"  said  the 
boss. 

"The  envelope  is  plain  enough: 

Mr.  Cor  key  Slithers,  T.  O.  S.t 

whatever  that  means." 

"Throw  the  villain  into  the  river;  smash  him 
among  the  logs  !  We  know  who  killed  Buttons 
now,"  were  the  savage  cries  of  the  excited 
group. 

"  Be  calm,  calm,  boys,"  said  the  boss. 
"He's  dead;  you  can't  injure  him.  'Ven- 
geance is  Mine,  saith  the  Lord.' ' 


PRIKTKD   BY  BINZIGKR    BROTHERS,  NEW   YORK. 


A     000128009    8 


